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! LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, j 



POEMS 



DRAMATIC AND MISCELLANEOUS. 



3 ® CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 

m 

AUTHOR OF " THE POET'S QUEST," " THE CROWNING HOftR," <tC. 




NEW-YORK: 
EDWARD DUNIGAN AND BROTHER 



V 



151 Fulton Street. 
1851. 



a ra. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 185 J, 
By CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern 
District of New-York. 



H. LUDWIO & CO., PRINTERS, 53, VESEY-STREET. 



No one can feel more sensibly than the Author, the many faults 
of the pieces that make up this collection, particularly the want of 
finish, in most of them, which the eye of the critic cannot fail to 
discover. But he wishes it to be borne in mind, that he has no 
pretensions to the name of scholar, and that these poems were 
written at such intervals of leisure, as could be stolen from duties 
of a laborious and engrossing nature. He does not know that 
either of these excuses will serve as a palliative for the faults con- 
fessed ; but he hopes that they, with the assurance of his pre- 
sent intention, of never again offending by appearing in the 
character of a poet, will mollify in a degree the truculent spirit of 
criticism. This assurance, however, is not given without regret. 
But as Necessity, the jealous and exacting Sarah of his tent, in- 
sists upon the expulsion, now and forever, of the poor Hagar, 
Poesy, he is forced to yield to her demands, and will be com- 
pelled, for the future, to devote his time to something better than 
" the unprofitable trade of ballad-making." 



CONTENTS. 



DRAMATIC POEMS. 

PAGE 

Kizzio, a Tragedy . . . ■ . . . . . 1 

The Compact, a Mask 63 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Han-Yerry 93 

"Godseeth" • .... 104 

The Child and the Angel Ill 

The Witch 117 

A Winter Evening Tale . . . . . . . 124 

Tory Hollow . . . . . . . . . .132 

The Bell of the Atlantic . 139 

A Sunday in the Country ....... 141 

Hymn to America 143 

Christmas Hymn ■ 145 

The Cross and Beads , 146 

A Tale of the Irish Famine 148 

The Star of the Sea . . . . ... . . 152 

Canzonet 153 

" Lovest thou me ?" 154 

The Crucifixion 155 

Peace, be still ......... 157 

Rest in the Church . 158 

The Emperor and the Nun . . ... . . . 159 

Paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer . . . . . .163 

" Not dead— but sleepeth" 165 



VI CONTENT*. 

ri.s« 

St. Patrick's Day 167 

Epitaph 169 

Sonnet 170 

To George Davis 171 

When I was in my boyhood 172 

Apologue 174 

Sophia 175 

Introduction to /'The Two Spirits" 177 

Song 181 

The Cup I have brimmed 182 

Lines ........... 183 

I loved Thee 186 

Sursum Corda 187 

The Soldier of Mary 189 

The Guardian Angel 197 

Notes 205 



DKAMATIC POEMS 



[The following Tragedy, and the trifle called a Mask, were written for the 
stage. But as a former play — "The Oath of Office" — had been 
productive to the writer of nothing but disappointment and bitterness 
of spirit, he abandoned his purpose of bringing them before the public 
in that way, and adopted, instead, the medium of the press. This 
was not done, however, without considerable regret ; for he was 
well aware of the disadvantage to which they were thereby sub- 
jected, as the parts that would be most effective in representation 
are least likely to please in the quiet of the closet. But he had no 
alternative.] 



RIZZIO 



A TRAGEDY. 



CHARACTERS. 



Secret enemies of the Queen. 



Henry Stuart, Loud Darnley, the Queen's husband, 

Earl of Morton, *| 

Lord Lindsay, 

Lord Ruthven, 

Sir Andrew Kerr, 

George Douglas, 

Sir James Melvill, a friend to the Queen and Rizzio. 

David Rizzio, the Queen's Secretary. 

Hilaire, a Page. 

Jean Daniot, an Astrologer. 

Officer. 

Preacher. 

Jock. 

Archbishop, Lords, Priests, Gentlemen, Soldiers, Citizens, At- 
tendants. 

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. 
Mary Seaton, her favourite. 
Meg. 

Ladies, Citizens' wires, &c. 

SCENE — Before and within the Palace of Holyrood. 



R I Z 



ACT FIRST. 
Scene I. — Before Holyrood. 

George Douglas and Sir Andrew Kerr meeting. 

George Douglas. Well met, Sir Andrew. 

Sir Andrew. What, George Douglas 1 You 
I thought with Morton, who so gallantly 
Hath led her Grace's troops against his — friends ! 

George 1). Not I, in faith ! I have but little stomach 
For war's uncertain game, or, if I had, 
Unlike my subtle kinsman, inclination 
Mayhap had led me t'other side to play it. 

Sir Andrew. 'Tis well it did not. Murray's rash at- 
tempt 
Has quite undone us. 

George D. Not so bad as that. 
It may have placed beyond our reach at present 
The prize we aimed at. But, fear not, Sir Andrew, 
'T will yet be ours. The people now are with 
This painted doll, that we have brought from France 
To be our queen, while good Lord James, whose veins 



4 rizzio. 

Are filled — without one taint of foreign mixture — 
With Scottish blood, is driven from the kingdom 
Should be his heritage, if Right were Law. 
But bide we yet. The antics of this Darnley 
Will soon disgust the Commons with the king 
Their queen has given them, and you'll hear anon 
How lustily they'll bawl to have him back, 
At whose discomfiture they now rejoice. 
And if they will it, with the promised aid 
Of our good neighbour, who shall say them nay ? 

(Music and shouts at a distance 
But hark ! the pageant is at hand. What say you ? 
Wilt stay and see the show % 

Sir Andrew. No, on my life ! 
But leave it to the rabble, whom I see 
Crowding this way. Will you along 1 

George D. Right gladly. 

(Exeunt 
Enter a number [of citizens confusedly, followed by Jock and Meg. 

Jock. Hurry, lass, hurry, or we'll never get near enough 
to see the sight. And such a sight ! Our beautiful queen, 
Heaven bless her bonny face ! and the handsome young 
lord, her husband, and a power of great nobles and dainty 
dames, all a coming in the grandest state, after chasing 
the cowardly rebels clean out of the country ! 

Meg. Lord love you, man, if I never see it, I can walk no 
faster. The breath has gone as clean out of my body as 
the rebels out of Scotland, and, I'm *o tired, 1 have hardly 



RIZZIO. 5 

a foot to stand on. Just let us step o' one side, and we 
shall see enough, I dare say, without going farther. 

Jock. Hoot, woman, no. But, save us ! here comes one of 
the new preachers. Let us get out of his way, at any 

rate. 

Exit Jock, pulling Meg after him. 

Enter Preacher. 

Preacher. Woe, woe, woe ! The evil long* predicted 
Hath come at last ! The curse indeed hath fallen ! 
Rejoice, ye fiends ! Satan, your lord, has triumphed ! 
The Light of Truth is blotted out, and darkness, 
Than Egypt's worse, now rests upon the land ! 
The Saints are driven from their heritage ; 
And rampant wickedness is re-established 
In our high places ! Th' Midianitish woman — 
Rome's pliant tool — who hath usurped the throne 
Of this fair realm, in bloated pride now comes 
To boast her triumph o'er its lawful owner ! 
Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Hold thy audacious tongue, thou canting knave, 

Or I will have thine ears as closely cropped 

As are the bristles of thine addle pate. 

What ! dar'st in open street to belch thy treason 

Against a sovereign good as she is fair ? 

Hence, with that scowling brow and blasting visage, 

Or I will send thee down to him thou servest 

A day before thy time. 

Pkeachee stalks away. 

Room for the Queen ! 



Enter Queen, in light armour, with Daenley by her side, at- 
tended by the Aechbishop, Lennox, Morton, Huntley, 
Bothwell, Seaton, Maitland, Rizzio, and other lords and 
gentlemen, with Mary' Seaton, and a numerous train of 
ladies. As they approach the palace, at a signal from the 
Queen, the music ceases, and she turns towards the crowd. 

Queen. My friends, my loving friends, to you we owe 
Our bloodless victory. Your prompt obedience, 
In answering to the summons of your queen, 
Has proved to those misguided men, who dared 
Within our peaceful realm unfurl the banner 
Of bold rebellion, what they had to hope 
From you, whose fealty was freely given 
To the weak woman who now wears the crown 
That circled erst the brows of gallant men ; — 
A race of kings, who, than their crown, could boast 
Themselves possessors of a greater treasure — 
Their people's love, which, with their rights, I hope 
I have inherited % 

One of the Crowd. You have ! you have ! 
Long live the Queen ! 

The Croivd. Long live our lovely Queen ! 

Queen. A thousand thanks, my friends. A woman's 
heart, 
Though it may beat beneath a jewelled vest, 
Still throbs responsive to the voice of kindness ; 
And mine must feel the icy touch of death 
Ere it can lose remembrance of this hour. 
And O may Heaven, with blessings manifold, 
Repay your love and loyalty to me ! 



RIZZIO, t 

The Crowd. Our love and loyalty are yours forever. 

The Queen bows her thanks ; the music is resumed, and the 
procession enters the palace, while the citizens, still shouting 
and waving their caps, disperse in different directions. 

Scene II. — A Eoom in the Palace. 
Miter Hilaire ivith a book, which he appears to read, 
but soon throws from him with an air of impatience. 
Hilaire. My mistress calls this kindness* Well it 
may be ! 
But I'd have thought it more like kindness of her 
Me had she taken with her to the wars. 
I do so love the tournament, I'm sure 
I should go mad to see a real battle ! 
A real battle 1 Why, if there be truth 
In what the gossip, Eumour, hath reported, 
There has been no such thing. The rascal rebels, 
Ashamed to look on her they fain would rob 
Of her inheritance, like craven deer, 
Fled ere she reached them. Pretty soldiers, faith ! 

(Music without. 
Here comes the Queen. I must away to meet her. 
As he is going out, the Queen and Daenley enter. 
Queen. My merry playfellow, I greet thee kindly. 
Hilaire. (kissing the hand she holds out to him). Most 

gracious mistress, you are welcome home ! 
Darnley. (throwing himself on a couch). Hence, hence, 

Sir Malapert. 
Hilaire. (much hurt). I go, my lord. 



8 RIZZIO. 

Queen, {kindly, as he turns to go out). Ay, leave us 
now ; I'll see thee soon again. 

(Exit HlLAIRE. 

A gentle heart, a loving and a true one. 

(To Darnlky, after a pause. 
Weary 1 or sulky 1 Jf the former, I 
Can sympathize with you most heartily, 
For, by my troth, I never was more tired, 
And would to rest, but that the good Archbishop 
Has craved our presence in the royal chapel, 
To join him in a song of thankfulness 
For our late blessing. 

Damley. Call you that a blessing % 

Queen. Ay, truly. Is not the rebellion crushed 
And not a blow been struck 1 And have not we 
A victory won, that costs no orphan's tear ; — 
That wrings no widow's heart 1 

Damley. [rising impatiently). Yet rather would I 
One half the land were drowned in orphans' tears, 
And widows' wailings rose from every shieling, 
Than that the spotted rebel Murray should 
The realm have fled ere we had measured swords. 

Queen. I thought you brave, or surely had not loved you ; 
Or, loving, had not wed, for with a coward 
No woman, be she queen or lowly peasant, 
Would join her fate. But 'tis not like a brave man 
To disregard, save when it suits his humour, 
The woes of others. Much as it would glad me 
To have your name in commendation uttered 



RIZZIO. 9 

For deeds of high emprise, 'twere greater pleasure 
To hear a blessing on your head invoked, 
By meanest hind, for charitable deed. 

Darnley. You talk like a weak woman. 

Queen, {sighing). May be so, 
But I have yet to learn that manly valour 
And heartlessness are one. The organ sounds. 
Will you unto the chapel 1 

Darnley. If I must, 

Though little I regard this solemn fooling. 

(Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Chapel of Holyrood. 

The Archbishop seated on his throne, and priests standing 
in front of the altar, ivhich is brilliantly lighted and de- 
corated ivith fotvers. Enter Queen and Darnley, with 
the Catholic lords, gentlemen, and ladies of their suite. 
The Queen and Darnley take their seats. The others 
remain standing, 

HYMK 

A song of thanksgiving, with loud exultation, 
We raise with one voice for a nation delivered. 

Our altars and hearths have escaped profanation ; 
And tyranny's might like a reed has been shivered ! 

Like ocean, in fury his bound'ries o'er leaping, 

Our foes through the land came to spread desolation; 

But near, and more near 'while destruction was sweeping, 
Unquickened by fear was the pulse of the nation. • 

For Thou wert our trust who art mightiest in Heaven ! 
Aad when from Thy throne, by the blaze of Thy glory 

1* 



10 



That's bidden, Thou lookedst, as stubble i> driven 

At will of the storm, were they scattered before Thee ! 

O then in thanksgiving, with loud exultation, 
Our song ■will we raise for a nation delivered ! 

Our temples and homes have escaped profanation ; 
And tyranny's might like a reed has been shivered ! 



K1ZZI0. 11 



ACT SECOND. 
Scene I. — The Queen's Apartment in Holyrood. 

The Queen is seated with a lute in her hand; Mary 
- Seaton standing a little behind, and the rest of her 

ladies at work around her. The Queen rises and gives 

the lute to Mary Seaton. 

Queen. Here, take it hence, good Seaton, take it hence. 
The instrument is sadly out of tune ; 
And, sooth to say, so is the player too. 
And yet have I done little else than sing 
These two days past ; and still the selfsame song, 
A simple thing, but, O ! so full of sadness, 
That I have felt my heart ache, and mine eyes 
Run o'er with bitter drops, as I repeated 
Its melancholy burthen. Didst thou mark it 1 
The song was Chatelard's. Poor murdered Chatelard ! 
Murdered by her he loved with such devotion ! 

Mary Seaton. My gracious mistress, what wild words 
are these 1 
The laws, and not your Grace, condemned the youth 
For his bold crime. 

Queen. Yes, Seaton, they condemned. 
But I it was, more merciless, that gave 
Unto the headsman's axe, a gentleman 



12 HIZZIO. 

Of rarest qualities ; who was the peer, 
In all that should confer nobility, 
To any lord in Scotland. And for what? 
Why the poor crime of loving one who hath, 
Heaven knows, but few to love her. 

Mary S. Dear my mistress, 
It was the second time he had offended, 
And therefore could you not have pardoned him, 
Without strong condemnation of your people, 
As truly said your brother. 

Queen, {impatiently). O my brother ! 
A precious brother hath he been to me ! 
And one so chary of my peace and honour, 
That he would not have any one approach me 
Who loves me not as he does. And how great 
His love is for me, let his late attempt 
Against my power, if not my life, bear witness. 
I would not boast, that, by a sister's love, 
My father's son was raised, from simple prior, 
To rank amongst the noblest of the land. 
Yet sure for this I might expect return 
More meet, than treason to the throne our father 
Made my inheritance ? O girl ! I would 
We were again in our beloved France, 
Though of her lowliest children, that we might 
Find hearts to guard us in the hour of peril. 
Dost thou remember, as we left her shores, 
The home-bound bark that, having 'scaped the dangers 



13 



Of many seas, went down in sight of land 1 

I bade thee mark it for an augury ; — 

And such it proved. Upon my native coast 

Perished the hopes wherewith my heart was freighted. 

Mary S. Most noble lady ! let not the misdeeds ' 
Of those poor traitors daunt your royal spirit. 

Queen. Alas, dear girl, had all my subjects risen 
To hurl me from my rightful throne, I would 
My fate have met, as should a Christian woman, 
With resignation. But than Murray's treason, 
Were that successful, worse immeasurably 
Is the conviction, that the man preferred 
To all the chivalry of Christendom, 
Whom I have loved — and fear I still do love — 
With love amounting to idolatry, 
Ne'er sought me for myself, but as the means 
Of his advancement. But what folly 's this ? 
Heed not my words, good wench, I am not well, 
And oft the mind is by the body's suffering 
Made feeble. See, the lute is in thy hand. 
Then wake the spirit that abides therein, 
And waft me on the wings of music back 
To sunny France, and girlhood's merry morn. 

Romance. — Mary Seaton. 

The Lily of Provence, of maidens the flower, 
The fair Isabel has come down from her bower, 
Her beads at the shrine of Our Lady to tell, 
For sad is the heart of the fair Isabel. 



14 tuzzio- 

Long, long months agoue, they have years been to Iilt. 
To wrest from the Paynirn the Lord's sepulchre, 
Young Victor vent forth, yet has nought come to tell, 
If lives he or not to the fair Isabel. 

" Our morning is clouded," at parting he said, 
" And yet, lady mine, is the sun overhead ; 
As he will the darkness around us dispel, 
Shall joy chase the grief of my fair Isabel." 

But darker the heavens as older the day, 
Till hope spread her wings and flew far, far away. 
When, blighting as frost on young flowerets, fell 
Despair on the heart of the fan - Isabel. 

Yet morning and evening she failed not to go 
To chapel, some respite to seek from her wo, 
But her beads, as she counted, unceasingly fell 
Hot tears from the eyes of the fair Isabel. 

She kneels down in sorrow, but raising her eyes. 
To the sweet face above her, beholds with surprise 
A smile on those lips whence no word ever fell, 
That thrills to the heart of the fair Isabel. 

And lo ! a poor Palmer, whose cheek has grown brown 
'Neath the suns of the East, by the maiden kneels down. 
She starts ! But a glance every doubt doth dispel. 
'Tis Victor returned to his fair Isabel ! 

Queen. Thanks, gentle spirit, thou hast exorcised 

The moody fiend that had possession of me. 

Now will I to my couch. An hour's repose, 

And I'll return and play the thrifty housewife. 

(Exit Queen, leaning on Mary Beaton. 

Scene II. — An Antechamber. 
Hii.aike enters and walks listless/// up and down, 
ffilaire. I am so wear) of this life of mine ! 



15 



Fasting and prayer without and brawls within 

Are hut ill suited to my temperament. 

The city is in sackcloth, and the preachers 

Of the new faith, like men half lunatic, 

In kirk and market-place are bellowing forth 

Denunciations of the sweetest lady 

That e'er had the misfortune to be born 

A queen among barbarians ; And the king — ■ 

Alas, that one so fair should be so weak 

As set her heart upon a thing like him ! — 

Has made a purgatory of the palace, 

Where we, poor wretches, doubtless for our sins, 

Are doomed each hour to suffer some new penance. 

O that I were a bird, how quickly I 

Would spread my wings and hie me back to France 

Enter Mary Seaton. 
Sweet Mary ! gentle mistress ! thou to me 
Art welcome as the sun to the chilled earth 
Of this rude clime : for truly, lady mine, 
My heart is almost frozen by the breath 
Of this ungenial court, and, only that 
It feels at times the warmth of thy bright eyes, 
Would stiffen into ice. 

Mary S. Prithee, Sir Page, 
Leave compliment, until I shall find leisure 
To thank thee for the pains which thou hast taken, 
To cull the flowers some other hand has reared, 
To veave a chaplet for mine humble brow, 



10 RIZZIO. 

Hilaire. Some other hand has reared 1 Nay, scornful 
lady, 
The flowers I offer ne'er had other culture 
Than mine : — the native growth of my own heart. 

Mary S. 'Tis wondrous that such goodly crop should 
spring 
From soil so sterile. But we'll let that pass. 
It is her Grace's order, for an hour 
No one shall break upon her privacy, 
As she, heart sick and weary, asks that time 
For needful rest. 

Hilaire. Her will shall be obeyed. 

Mary S. And mark ; not even the king must be admitted. 

Hilaire. Nor king nor emperor, when she forbids, 
Shall trespass on her ; and, had I her warrant 
To keep Lord Darnley ever from her presence, 
I'd do it at the hazard of my life ! 

Mary S. You do not love the king 1 

Hilaire. Love him ? Who does % 

Mary S. The Queen. 

Hilaire. I'll not believe it. Love and hate 
Might dwell in the same heart for the same object. 
But not contempt and love. By this the queen 
Has found her senses, and must see how worthless 
The idol is that she set up for worship, 
Because its outside pleased her, and must scorn it, 
With all who know the paltry thing it is. 
Love him ? She cannot. And 'twas truth you said, 



RIZZIO. 17 

That I do love him not ; and wish I were 
A man, and peer to him, that with my sword 
I might chastise him, for the cruel wrongs 
He heaps upon the kindest heart that beats. 

Mary S. Bravo, Sir Sparrow ! If this humour hold 
From sun to sun, and thou dost show it freely 
To others as to me, so that the king 
Become acquainted with it, thou wilt chance 
To win a bloody coxcomb for thy crest. 

Hilaire. Better a bloody coxcomb than a heart 
Whose blood another's wrongs can never warm. 

I shall not always be a boy, and when 

- Mary S. Thou hast a beard upon thy chin, I hope 
Thou 'It have more prudence, or wilt get it plucked. 

Hilaire. T'were a bold hand that would essay it, lady. 

Mary S. No doubt, Sir Valiant. But behold the king. 
He comes this way ; and on his fevered brow 
I trace the marks of yesternight's debauch, 
Despite the solemn fast the kirk ordained. 
Do not forget the orders of the queen. 

(Exit. 

Hilaire. That will I not. 

Places himself before the door of the queen's apartment. Darn- 
ley enters hurriedly and attempts to^pass him, which Hilaiiie 
prevents. 

Damley. Give place ! 

Hilaire. The queen commands ; 
No one shall be admitted to her chamber 
For one hour's space. 



18 R1ZZI0, 

Darnley. The queen commands l . The Kiny. 
To whom the queen, thy mistress, owes obedience. 
Now bids thee stand aside, and let him pass. 

Hilaire. Indeed, my lord, I cannot. 

Darnley. Cannot, sirrah % 
If thou regard'st thy safety, stand aside. 

Hilaire. I stand here in obedience to the queen, 
And, save by her command, will not give way 
To any man, though he were twice a king. 

Darnley. What ! wouldst thou brave me ? 

Hilaire. I but do my duty. 

Darnley. So will I mine. 

Darnley seizes Hilaire, and thrusting himr udely aside, is about 
to pass into the chamber, when the door opens and the Queen 
appears. 

Queen. Back ! back, unmannered brawler ! 
Hast thou so little reverence for our person, 
As play the rumer in our very presence 1 
What, is it you, my lord 1 I cry you mercy ! 
I thought one of the base, disloyal rout. 
Who clothe sedition in the garb of truth, 
In imitation of their leader Knox, 
Had come to brave his sovereign in her palace. 
What has betid to chafe my lord the king, 
That he should vent his rage upon a boy % 

Darnley. Why did you bid your minion bar my way ? 

Queen. I wished a short, repose — Heaven knows I need 
it! 



RIZZIO. 19 

Pass thou into my chamber. (To IIilaike, who obeys 

with evident reluctance?) 
Well, my Lord, 

What is your gracious pleasure ? Is there aught 
Left to the powerless queen of this poor realm 
That she may grant, to show a wife's obedience 1 

Darnley. Let us pass in. This is no place to urge 
The suit on which I come. 
Queen. The old one still 
Against the Hamiltons 1 Wherever urged 
That suit must be denied. 
Darnley. It is not that. 

Queen. O then, whate'er it is, I pray you now 
Defer it. I'm not well. My temples throb ; 
My heart beats wildly, and a torturing pain 
Pierces my side. Go, leave me for an hour ■ — 
Nay, half an hour ; — you'll surely grant me that 1 
It is not much ; — then come with your demand, 
And I will listen to it. 

Darnley. I'll not stir, 
'Till you have heard, and granted my request. 
You call me King. In every other land 
The King doth wear a' crown ; — yet have I none, 
Although on you, and not the Parliament, 
As you have urged, it doth depend to place 
Upon my brow that sign of royalty, 
Which will become me quite as well, I ween, 
As him who wore it last — the puny Francis. 



20 RIZZIO. 

Queen. Th&puny Francis — Heaven be his rest! 
More royal in his nature than his birth, 
Asked not the trappings of the kingly office 
To prove himself a king. The crown he wore 
Was well bestowed ; — he honoured it in wearing. 
When next you come to ask a favour, sir, 
Try, 'till 'tis granted, to forbear an insult. 

\ Retires into the chamber. 

Darnley. But hear me, Madam. Death ! she will not 
hear ! 
But treats me like a froward boy ; — a slave 
Born for her service. I will not endure it ! 
I am her husband, and will wring her heart, 
Or she shall own me master. 

Enter George Douolas. 

Well encountered, 
Most worthy cousin. To behold a face 
That doth not scowl, or smile in scorn upon me, 
Is now so rare, that I would welcome it, 
Though 'twere a Frenchman's. But when such as yours — 
A countryman's — for, though my earliest breath 
Was drawn in England, I'm in heart a Scot — 
Wears its old look of kindness, I would fain 
The owner of it grapple to my heart, 
And have him grow there. O I am most wretched ! 

George D. Wretched, my lord ? If you, upon whose 
head 
Hath fortune shed her favours, can be wretched, 



EIZZIO. 21 

What hope of happiness for such as 1 1 

What hidden grief thus moves my lord the king % 

Damley. I pray thee, do not league with those who 
mock me. 

George D. Mock you, my liege 1 

Damley. Why did you use a word 
So void of meaning when you spake to me % 

George D. What word, my lord 1 

Damley. The title that you gave me. 

George D. Is it not yours 1 You are the king — 

Damley. In name. 
A king in name, good cousin ; — nothing more. 
The page, that flies to do her Highness' will 
At motion of her finger, is a king 
In power as much, nay more, by Heaven ! than I. 

George D. This should not be. Why chose the queen 
a husband, 
But for the aid of some strong hand to wield 
The sceptre she unable was to hold 'I 
And, if you are to share the toils and pains 
Of government, 'tis right you share the power. 

Damley. This have I urged upon her, but in vain ; 
Although her royal word, when first we wed, 
Was pledged to give me what she now refuses. 

George D. She did not always, then, refuse the crown 
That should invest you with the power of king, 
Which, as her husband, clearly is your right ? 



22 rizzio. 

Darnley. No, not 'till late. 

George I). Then she has changed her mind ; — 

That's something not unusual in her sex ; — 
Or may, perhaps, have been thereto advised 
By some one near her person, not your friend. 

Darnley. I think not that ; and yet it may be so. 
But who 1 Were Murray still at court, indeed 
Suspicion might have one on whom to rest. 

George D. And yet there may be one nearer than 
Murray, 
Argyle or Hamilton, even less your friend 
Than those misguided nobles. Look around, 
And see, among her Highness' ministers, 
If there be any unto whom she turns 
For counsel ever. 

Darnley. None — save Rizzio ; 
And he is most my friend. Why do you smile ? 

George D. But at an idle fancy. Some have hinted— 
I know not what the ground of their surmise, 
Most likely none — that Rizzio has used 
The power which he possesses o'er the queen — 
How got appears not — for his own advancement, 
Rather than for her interest or honour. 
This do 1 say have people hinted ; and 
I thought, when now your Grace so confidently 
Called him your friend, how easy 'tis for men, 
Who do not see the cards the players hold. 
To fancy knavery in a same thai': fair. 



RIZZIO. 2o 

Because the winning still is on one side. 
This Rizzio has been a lucky player, 

Damley. Douglas, be open with me. Do you think 
The queen's refusal of my late requests — 
(Attainder of the Duke of Chatelherault, 
By which the Hamiltons shall be forever 
Barred of the right they claim to the succession, 
After the Stuarts, to the throne of Scotland, 
And for myself the Matrimonial Crown) — 
Was prompted only by a woman's humour, 
Or this adventurer ? If I thought the latter, 
I'd make him rue all meddling with his betters. 

George D. Then, to be open, I and many others, 
Friends to your Grace, believe this nameless stranger 
To be the creature of the Guises, who 
Would govern through the queen, their niece, this realm, 
As they already govern France ; and fearing 
The influence of a husband, seek to weaken 
The bond of true affection, that should bind 
The wedded pair, whose strength is confidence ; 
And for this end, the wily Piedmontese, 
By specious arguments, leads on her Highness 
To act in all things counter to your wish. 
Our reasons will I give for this belief 
At large, if you will walk aside with me, 
Beyond the reach of listeners. 

Darnley {talcing the arm of George D.) Readily. 

(Exeunt 



24 Rtzzio. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene — Rizzio's Chamber, adorned with pictures, and 
with books on shelves. A table in the centre, on which are 
thrown books, manuscripts, and musical instruments, 
Rizzio is discovered writing. He rises and comes for- 
ward. 

Rizzio. My heart is strangely sad. In vain have I, 
By giving occupation to the mind, 
Sought from my bosom to divert the weight 
That presses on it. But it will not be ! 
Some adverse power is surely hovering o'er me, 
Which fills the air with mystery and dread, 
And sinks the hopeful spirit, that 'till now 
Has borne me bravely up against all fortunes, 
Despite of reason, down into the depths 
Of cold despair ! Why this is wonderful ! 
The real present hath th' uncertainty 
That troubles us in dreams ; the future lies 
Before me, like the ocean clothed in night, 
And pale, sad visions of the buried past 
Come, to upbraid my long forgetfulness 
Of the dear land, which, tempted by ambition, 
I did abandon for the sterile north. 
O Italy ! Beloved Italy ! 



rizzio. 25 

The home of learning, genius, beauty, Faith, 

That still, though fallen from thine high estate, 

Make thee the mistress of the universe ! 

So closely have all memories of thee 

Entwined themselves with powers of heart and brain, 

Whate'er my efforts to attain to greatness, 

They pluck me backwards to the lowly vale 

Of poverty, where dwelt my humble sires, 

More wise than their descendant. O this humour 

Will sink me into second childishness 

Enter Hilaiee. 
My merry friend, thou art right welcome. 

Hilaire. Nay, 
You name me not aright. I am not merry, 
Nor shall be e'er again, I fear, good signior. 

Rizzio. Why, what has hap'd to damp thy mirthful 
spirit ? 

Hilaire. What daily haps. I see my mistress wronged, 
And cannot right her. See her baited by 
A currish pack, yet have my hands tied down 
That I may not so much as cast a stone. 
While he) who should be foremost in her cause, 
Stands idly by, and lets them work their will. 
She never stirs abroad she is not met 
By some invention of her demon-subjects, 
In which her heart is wounded through her faith ; 
And, the Reformers have such zeal for Truth, 



2 



26 rizzio. 

They will not suffer her to pray in peace, 

But thrust themselves between her and her God, 

Rizzio. Alas, poor lady ! my heart weeps for her ! 

Hilaire. And well it may. Yet we, with Heaven to aid r 
Will place her where their malice cannot reach her. 
Upon a throne begirt with honest hearts. 

Rizzio. Then 'twill not be an earthly throne, my boy. 
But dost thou bring no message from our mistress 1 

Hilaire. O yes. She bade me say, that in an hour 
She will expect you in her cabinet. 

Rizzio, I will attend. 

Hilaire. Signior, I kiss your hands. 

Exit. 

Rizzio. Light, but true heart, adieu. 
Enter Sir Jajies Melvilu 
My dear Sir James, 

Though always welcome, you are now most welcome ; 
For you will help me drive away a sadness — 
A stranger to my nature — that unbidden 
Hath come to take up his abode with me. 

Sir James. Alas, good signior, I am sore afraid 
That what I have to say, will but confirm 
The residence of him you would dislodge. 

Rizzio. Nay, look not on me with that rueful visage, 
Or I will think you gifted with a power, 
Oft boasted by your countrymen, of seeing 
What yet the future hides from common eyes. 

Sir James. Then you would wrong me. But, to one 
who knows 



rizzio. 27 

His native clime, the cloud, that to a stranger 
Would seem a speck, foretells the coming tempest. 
There's danger lurking near you. 

Rizzio. Danger % 

Sir James. Yes. 
I have seen that in Morton, though he seem 
Your friend, which bodeth evil. In his blood 
Is hatred to the name of Favourite ; 
And he-, though won by highest merit, who 
Hath been the foremost in his sovereign's love, 
Has ever in the Douglas found a foe. 
Besides, the king, by every impulse swayed , 
Who, for the services you rendered him 
With our good queen, at first such large professions 
Did make of gratitude, now openly 
Proclaims his enmity, because he thinks 
Your influence is exerted to debar 
Him of his right — the Matrimonial 'Crown. 

Rizzio. I thank you, good Sir James, but needed not 
The hint your kindness prompted you to give, 
To know I stand upon a precipice. 
So must he ever who, no matter how 
The height was reached, has made his way to power. 
And know, too, that a breath may cast me down. 
But knowledge of my danger brings no fear 
Of what may hap. The Douglas loves me not. 
That know I well ; and well am I content 
To have his hate, while I deserve it not. 



28 RIZZIO. 

And, for the anger of the facile king, 

I'll bear that too, so long as it shall hinder 

No work of mine to make my mistress happy. 

Sir James. But in your ruin is the queen's involved 

Rizzio. The queen's in mine 1 I pray you, tell me how ? 

Sir James. The jealousy of Darnley has been roused, 
By hints, that o'er his wife you exercise 
The influence of a lover. 

Rizzio. Monstrous charge ! 
She — one endowed with every perfect gift; 
That heaven bestows upon its favourites — 
Lavish the priceless treasure of her love 
On such as I % Without the charm of youth, 
Or manly form, or any of those graces 
That woman's eye delights in % She love me ? 
My wildest wish ne'er soared to such a height. 

Sir James. You do not speak like one who does not, 
love. 

Rizzio. I spake of her, not of myself; for 'twere 
Indeed unmanly — monstrously ungrateful — 
In any one that should not love a mistress, 
Who, passing by his lowliness of birth, 
Had, for the talents that she deemed were his, 
Above the titled and the highborn raised him, 
To be the sharer of her confidence, 
As in her sovereign bounty she hath me. 
But O ! the love I bear her is as holy 
As the. pure flame, enkindled by devotion. 



Rizzro. 29 

tn the pale anchoret's chastised heart, 
Where all of grosser nature is consumed, 
By fire like that which touched the prophet's lips. 
And, counselled by that love, I still have striven 
To render her the happiest, as the best, 
Of earthly queens ; to make in other lands 
Her name respected, and secure at home 
Her people's love — the only certain "basis 
Whereon to build a throne. Well, if for this, 
I have made foes where I might look for friends, 
I am content. And if they seek my life, 
Though not disposed to cast it rashly from me, 
Because I hold it for another's service, 
Yet, sooner than to turn aside when duty 
Marks out my path, they shall be welcome to it. 

Sir James. Though I must grieve that you contemn 
my counsel, 
I cannot but admire your true devotion 
To our poor queen, who ill can spare a friend 
In times like these, when he, who should protect her 
'Gainst harm, doth load her with indignities, 
To which the meanest of her sex would not 
Submit with patience. 

Rizsio. That I e'er advised 
The union of a being so exalted 
With one of Darnley's base and grovelling nature, 
Is what of all that I have done of evil 
I most repent me ; and, in punishment 



30 RIZZIO. 

Of this one fault, were there no other cause, 
Offer my breast a targe for every shaft 
The hatred of the man, whose hand I armed 
With power to hurt, may aim at hers. 

Sir James. Brave friend ! 
Though I can never hope to emulate 
Your loyalty of spirit, I cannot 
Eefuse to it the homage of my heart. 

Rizzio. Nay, nay, Sir James, you shall not wrong your- 
self. 
I know — so does the queen — on Scottish ground 
There does not tread a man than you more loyal, 
Or one who sooner would, at risk of all, 
Stand by his sovereign in the hour of peril. 

Sir James. 'Tis kindly said, and truly ; and I thank you. 
And so will take my leave, almost content 
That I have sped so ill. Signior, farewell. 

Rizzio. Farewell, good friend, farewell. 

Exit Sir James. 

'Twas very kind 

Of the good knight, to caution one of danger 
Whose rise to power, could hardly fail to wake, 
In hearts least envious, feelings of dislike 
Against the stranger, who possessed the place 
A native subject might as well have filled ; 
And one less noble would have turned aside 
And let the evil come unheralded. 



BIZZIO. Si 

Twas a most kind, indeed, but needless caution. 

Enter Daniot. 
Well, father? 

Daniot. Well ? Nay, son, it is not well ; — 
But evil — sudden, dark and terrible ! 

Rizzio. What dost thou mean ? 

Daniot. I have beheld the future, 
Even as a scroll, writ o'er with words of fire, 
Unrolled before me, where I saw the doom 
That will — unless by speedy flight averted — 
O'ertake thee suddenly. That doom is Death ! 
A Blood? Death ! — yet not what brave men seek ; — 
But one of ruffian violence. O fly ! 

Rizzio. From what 1 ? A phantom, which the o'er- 
wrought brain 
Hath conjured up, to leave behind a name 
Dishonoured 1 ? — one that shall in aftertimes 
Become another word for Cowardice % 
But whither fly 1 Is there a spot of earth 
Death has not made his own 1 And if, by flying 
From her who hath a claim even to my life, 
I for the present shall elude this Death, 
Must I not meet him in the distant land 
To which I go % Then here will I abide, 
Unless thou prov'st to me, my gracious queen 
Shall find another who will serve her better 
When I am gone. But, prithee, whence this danger 
Thou deem'st so imminent and terrible % 



32 rizzio. 

Daniot. The name of him. whose hand shall deal the 
blow 
Against thy life, appeared not in the scroll : 
And only this I saw, that he is one 
Who boasts a lofty name ; whose ancient blood 
Is from a princely source ; but on whose brow 
A mother's shame hath left a mark so deep 
It cannot be effaced. 

Rizzio. The traitor Murray ! 
But what have I to fear from him, whose sword, 
Though from Dumfries it reach to Edinbro' 
Can harm not me ? For while I hold my place, 
He ne'er shall tread this soil ; whose greatest curse 
Has been to nourish reptiles, like to this, 
That sting her in the hour of confidence. 

Daniot. Yet be advised, my son. 

Rizzio. Unto what end ? 
if honour must or safety be endangered, 
Let me secure mine honour, and the other 
Must fare even as it may. I thank thee, father ; 
But cannot take thy counsel. 

Daniot. Then farewell ! 

I leave thee with a heart weighed clown with sorrow. 

For, ah ! I know the hour of doom is nigh ! 

Going. 

Rizzio. Yet one word more. Nay, not of him whose 

fate, 

Howe'er fulfilled, in glory nr in shame, 



mzzio. 33 

Save in the bosoms of a nameless few, 

Shall ne'er in human heart awake emotion 

Of gladness or of grief. Mine is a name 

Writ on the sandy margin of the sea, 

Which the next wave must wash away forever. 

But didst thou nothing in that scroll, in which 

Thou read'st my future, of the destiny 

Of her behold, who shall in story live, 

When death has given back to mother earth 

The fairest form that e'er sprang from her bosom — 

My glorious mistress ? 

Daniot. Would these aged eyes 
Had been forever closed, ere they beheld 
The page unfolded stained with Mary's fate ! 
Sorrow and shame ! — flight and imprisonment ! 
Long years of anguish ; and a bloody death ! 
Were written there ! 

Rizzio. Out, out upon thee, raven I 

I'll hear no more of thy dark prophecies, 

Or my weak voice will rise against high heaven, 

Its justice to arraign ! Away ! away ! 

Throwing himself into a seat and covering his face with his 
hands. Exit Daniot sorrowfully. 



2* 



34 



ACT FO l'I!TH. 

Scene t. — Morton's Apartment in Holyrood. 

Morton, Ruthven and Lindsay discovered seated at a table, 
loithpapers before them. They rise and come forward. 
Morton. We must have Murray back, or all our laboiirs, 
The gospel light to spread through this poor realm, 
Where moral darkness long hath reigned supreme. 
Have been in vain. 

Ruthven. A truce to cant, my lord. 
Knox is not by, nor will these walls repeat 
Our secret conference, that we make a show 
Of zeal for truth*, when we have but one object- 
Though wisely hidden from the public view — 
Our own advancement on another's ruin. 
But you say true, — we must have Murray back, 
Or Mary, with her gracious words and smiles. 
Whose power there's nought too rugged to withstand., 
Winning the hearts of the unstable people 
To their old faith and ancient loyalty — 
Whose clamour for ' ; Lord James and the Evangil" 
Will last while interest tunes their venal threats, 
No longer — will become too strong for us, 
And ravel all our web. We must, indeed, 
Have Murray back. 



rizzio. 35 

Lindsay. But how ? 
Morton. Right easily. 
The king is now at variance with the queen ;— 
Ruthven. With her, or some one, is he every day. 
Morton. Who pleased no longer with his goodly 

person, — 
Ruthven. {scornfully.) His goodly person ! By my 
faith, I think 
'Twould not have been so hard this side the Tweed 
To find a husband for our dainty lady, 
That she should send to England for a mate, 
Were goodliness of person all she sought. 

Lindsay. But you forget ; — you were not free to wed. 
Ruthven. I thought not of myself ; — nor any present. 
Morton, {not heeding them.) And weary of the antics he 
has played, 
Since she bestowed on him the hand was sought 
By men whose deeds were princely as their birth, 
Told him, but yestereve, she'd ne'er consent, 
That he should wear the Matrimonial Crown, 
The latest bauble he hath set his heart on. 
Now of this molehill will we make a mountain, 
That shall forever separate these twain. 

Lindsay. But how shall this serve us? He is our kins- 
man, 
And one for whose advancement we have laboured. 

Morton. Most true. We thought he would be useful 
to us. 



36 rizzio. 

And therefore aided him to reach a height 
To which his feeble genius ne'er had soared ; 
But whence, so dizzy now is his weak brain, 
He cannot help but fall ; yet, ere his fall, 
Good service may he do us. 
Ruthven. Prithee how 1 , 
Morton. Why thus, George Douglas — 
Lindsay, (to Ruthven.) Is it not a pity 
That George, who hath so much of Angus in him, 
Should have no title to his father's lands ? 
Had his fair, easy mother been the wife 
Of the stout Earl, old " Bell the Cat" had yet 
Survived in his descendant. 

Ruthven. (aside to Lindsay.) You forget 
How much would that diminish Morton's power, 
Who now is guardian to the youthful heir. 

Lindsay, (aside to Ruthven.) Ah, well remembered. 
Morton. As I said, George Douglas, 
Well tutored for the part he had to play, 
Has added fuel to the furious flame 
Already kindled in the breast of Darnley, 
By hinting, that some secret enemy, 
One of the many creatures near the queen, 
Has been the cause of his discomfiture. 
And this doth he believe, without reflecting, 
How shamefully has he abused the kindness 
That raised him to his present noble station, 
Which must have quenched in any woman's heart 



rizzio. 37 

Whate'er of love her fancy might have kindled, 
And make her wary how she yields her power 
To one who would not fail t' abuse it. Well, 
Whom, think ye, do we make this secret foe ? 

Ruthven. Huntley, perhaps, or Bothwell, or — 

Lindsay. Th' Archbishop. 

Morton. No. One who stands more in our way than 
these, 
Though they are there. Her Grace's Secretary. 

Ruthven and Lindsay. What ! Rizzio 1 

Morton. The same. 

Lindsay. He will not surely 
Distrust the man who was his firmest friend, 
When first he came a wooing to the queen ? 

Morton. He ivas his friend ; but that he is I doubt, 
This man hath all the shrewdness of his nation, 
And seeing the unfitness of the king — 
As we must call him — properly to wield 
The power at which he grasps, and looking solely 
To the advancement of his mistress' interest, 
With which his own is intimately woven, 
Most wisely, if not honestly, hath used 
His influence with the queen, to make her keep 
In her own hands the reins of government. 
This has it been the business of George Douglas 
On Darnley to impress ; who, for this reason, 
Will lend his aid to pluck the Favourite down. 
It follows then : — He will detach himself 



38 Rizfcio. 

.From the queen's cause, for hers and Rizzio's 

Are one, and must come o'er to us ; while wo 

Will promise largely to secure to him 

All that his heart now craves, on these conditions ; — » 

The pardon and recall of Murray, and 

Those who were with him in the late rebellion, 

With the establishment, now and forever, 

Of our pure Faith — excluding every other. 

Lindsay. I do not see how this can aid our cause. 
What power hath Darnley, that he might stand up 
Against the Favourite, whose subtle brain 
Is ready at expedients 1 

Morton. He has none, 
If still that brain were left to plot against him. 
But Rizzio must die — and die at once — 
By Darnley's act, if not by Darnley's hand. 
This deed, which quenches the last spark that smoulders 
Among the ashes of the queen's affections, 
Will leave to him no choice of friends. He must, 
For his own safety, make our cause his own. 

Ruthven. My lords, I've little skill at plots. My leisure, 
Though I have had for mischief no disrelish, 
Has found far other uses ; for I hold, 
With him of old — '-To live is to enjoy.' 1 — 
And therefore have I wisely given to pleasure 
The time you statesmen waste in court intrigues. 
Yet, though I may do little with my brain, 
I have a hand — a little weakened now* 



fcizzio. 89 

By illness — still can wield a sword ; and here 
I pledge both hand and sword to any service 
My country may require. Whether to fight 
Her enemies abroad, or strike clown traitors 
Within her borders. And that Rizzio 
Is traitor to her interests — or to ours, 
Which means the same — admits not of dispute. 
So in his fall, if that his fall be bloody, 
Count ye upon my aid. 

Morton. It will be useful ; 
And soon it may be needed. 
JRuthven. None too soon. 
Lindsay. Here comes the king. 
Morton. And in good time : nor hence 
Shall he depart till we have made him ours. 

Enter Daenlet and George Douglas. 
Your Grace is welcome. 

Darnley. Thanks, my good lord chancellor. 
I'm glad (to But/wen) to see you on your feet again, 
Good uncle mine. How (to Lindsay) fares my noble 
kinsman '? 
Lindsay. Eight well, I thank your Grace. 
Darnley. (seating himself.') Our cousin here 
Hath spoken to me of a little business 
You have in hand, for which my help is needed. 
You've but to name it to command my service. 

Morton. The business that we have concerns your Grace 
Far more than any here. 



40 RIZZIO. 

Darnley. I'm sorry for it. 
'Twould please me better could my humble means 
Be useful to the State, or you, my lords, 
Or any of the friends of our loved Scotland, 
Rather than to myself, that I might show 
How deep is my devotion to the weal 
Of this dear land. 

Morton. In this you serve us all. 
So closely are our interests united, 
That what is done for you is done for Scotland, 
And every loyal son that calls her mother. 
Whene'er the sovereign is debarred his rights — 
As, to our shame be't said, your Grace hath been— 
Then must the realm, of which he is the head, 
Suffer great wrong, and all good subjects with it. 
In short, my lord, it is our firm resolve 
To place you in the seat from which too long 
You have been kept by a presuming stranger, 
And make you — not alone in name — but fact 
A King ! 

George Douglas. By Heaven ! it is a burning shame, 
That we so patiently have bowed our necks 
To bear the yoke which foreign enemies, 
By the Italian's hands, have laid upon us ! 
For that the queen is governed by her kinsmen, 
Lorraine and Guise, those foes to Truth and Scotland, 
By means of Rizzio, no one here can doubt : 
And, if we would not see our country made 



nnzto. 41 

A fief of France, and the great truths which Knox — 

That holy man, whom slanderous tongues would call 

A bold perverter of God's sacred word ! — 

Has laboured to establish, set at naught, 

We must arise and hurl the evil-doer 

From the proud eminence on which he stands, 

Buthven. Death ! death ! to the intruder ! 

Lindsay. Instant death ! 

Morton. What says your Grace to this ? 

Darnley. (rising.) So let it be. 
With his own hands hath he wrought out his doom ; 
And he shall die ! 

Morton. The means ? 

Darnley. Of that anon. 

Morton. Then if your Grace will meet us here to night* 
About the hour of ten, whate'er our plans, 
We will submit them to you. 

Darnley. {taking the arm of Geo. D.) I'll not fail. 
Farewell. ' Come, cousin, we'll walk back together. 

Exit with George Douglas. 

Morton. Now I'll to Lethington, whose hand hath framed 
A bond, to which, ere move we one step farther, 
The king shall place his name for Murray's pardon, 
And all things else that we require of him. 

Exeunt severally. 



42 



Scene II. — The Queen's Cabinet. 
The Queen sleeping on a couch. Mary Seaton seated at 
work by her side. 

Queen, (in her sleep,") Hold, Murray, hold ! I am your 
queen — your sister ! 
Then yield me not a prey to yon fell monster. 
Henry, my husband, stand you there, and see 
This wrong committed 'gainst your wife, nor raise 
A hand in her defence? O shame upon you ! 
Take off these chains ! I am a free born woman, 
And will not thus be treated. Is there none 

To strike one blow for Scotland and for Mary ? 

Springing to her feet- 
A Stuart, ho ! a Stuart ! to the rescue ! 
Brave Huntley ! loyal Seaton ! nobly done ! 
Ha, ha ! a dream 1 A dream 1 Thank heaven a dream ! 

Mary Seaton. Your Grace hath been so troubled, that 
I longed 
To break your sleep, but knew not how to do it, 
So much I thought you stood in need of rest. 

Queen. Alas, my girl, there is no rest for me, 
Whose waking ills — and they, as heaven can witness, 
Are not a few — are multiplied in sleep. 
Even now I dreamed I was in Murray's power ; 
Who, having bound me like a criminal, 
Had cast me at the feet of England's queen, 
That seemed no woman, but a fearful gorgon, 



iuzzio. 43 

Whose baleful glance would turn one's heart to stone. 

Heaven ! my blood is frozen at the thought ! 
And while I writhed in agony before her, 

The king stood by and at my sufferings mocked. 
Tell me, old playmate, how would you interpret 
A dream like this 1 Think you, it bodes no evil % 

Mary Seaton. As much of good or evil as a phantom, 
By fancy raised to fill the throne, that reason 
Has for a time left vacant, can of either : — 
And that is nothing. 

Queen. Well, it may be so. 
And yet that dream has filled me with strange fears, 
As if it had been sent by Heaven to warn me 
Of some new evil. Then may Heaven endue me 
With strength to bear what cannot be averted. 
If Rizzio wait without, go bid him enter. 
He must decide my course. 

Mary Seaton steps to the door, and returns followed by Rizzio. 
Welcome, my friend. 

Rizzio. Your Grace's lowliest servant. 

Queen. My best friend. 
Tor there is none to whom, in hours like this, 

1 can for honest counsel turn but thee. 

Seaton, make fast the door by which the king 

Steals on us oft. We'll have no interruption. 

Mart Seaton bolts the door opening upon the private passage, 
and then stands apart. 

You know the strait in which I now am placed. 



44 Rizfcio. 

Advise me how to act. I find my husband 

In league -with those who ask me to recall 

Tiaa^bamshed lords ; — and my affections too 

Cry out for pardon of the rebel Murray ; — 

Yet clemency to them would be to offer 

Reward for treason. From this amnesty, 

Which he demands, he would howe'er except 

The Hamiltons. Not that they are more guilty — - 

Indeed far less — than Murray and the rest ; 

But lest they should one day dispute with him 

The throne that, as my heir, he hopes t' ascend. 

Rizzio. Grant Heaven he may grow old nursing that 

hope, 

Yet never find it more than hope to him. 

A noise is heard at the door of the secret passage, and then a 
loud knock. 

Damley. (without.) Within there, ho ! Open, I say ; 
and quick ! 

Mary Seaton. (advancing.) It is the king. 

Queen. It is. What then 1 I said 

We'd have no interruption ; and we will not. 

When weary waiting he will go again. 

The queen is now in conference with her minister. 

Mary Seaton retires. The knockings are repeated with much 
violence, and then cease. 

What shall I do % I would be merciful. 
Both as a woman and a Christian, yet 
Must, as a queen, be just : and if I grant 



RIZZIO. 45 

Mercy to some, which I deny to others, 
To those I do except I am unjust, 

Rizzio. You are my liege. You must deny the king 
Both his demands. To bring the rebels home, 
Would but undo all that your Grace has done 
To bring back peace and order to the land, 
For Murray ne'er would rest to see another 
Possess the power he fancies should be his. 
And to attaint the Hamiltons, would be 
An act of gross injustice, which your people, 
Nor them alone, but every Christian nation, 
Would loud as such condemn. There'll be a time 
For mercy yet. Let justice now be done. 

Queen. It shall be so. I thank you for your counsel. 
It gives new vigour to my own resolve. 
I will not now detain you. But remember, 
We have some friends to sup with us at eight. 
You must be of the number. Until then, 
Farewell. 

Rizzio. Most proud shall I be to obey. 

Exit. 

Queen. Yes, justice shall be done. My husband's anger, 
So cruel and unsparing, must be braved ; 
The importunities of friends unheeded ; 
And the loud pleadings of my own weak heart 
Be silenced, while to the demands of justice 
I yield up strength and will. Oh this it is 
To be a queen ! To stand hedged round with foes. 



46 rizzio. 

Without one loving heart to rest upon ; 

With scarce the hope of meeting, this side Heaven, 

One kind approving smile. Yet there, ay there 

I claim approval, if I but perform 

The duties of my state ; and that I may, 

I beg thine aid, O Queen of Holy Patience ! 

Kneels reverently before a picture of the Blessed Virgin. 



rizzio. 47 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene I. — Morton's Apartment in Holtrood. 

Morton, Euthven, Lindsay, and Sir Andrew Kerr 
grouped around a table, on which a parchment lies unrolled. 

Morton. What think ye of the bond % 

Lindsay. 'Tis strongly worded. 

Morton. And cunningly : for, while it crown and sceptre 
To Darnley gives, it places in our hands — 
What crown and sceptre poorly typify — 
True kingly power. The service which he deems 
Is prompted by our love and loyalty — 
Removing, even by bloody means, the one 
Who stands between his hopes and their fulfilment — 
He well repays, by calling home our friends, 
And placing on a basis too secure 
E'er to be shaken thence our Holy Kirk. 

Ruth'ven. (scoffingly.) O Holy Kirk ! that which is 
done for her 
The end must sanctify, whate'er the means ! 
Sir Andrew, think'st not so ? 

Sir Andreiv. (earnestly.) Ay, in good sooth, 
Even to blood-shedding. We with Rizzio 
The holy work begin, that not with him 



48 rizzio. 

Shall end. Our cause — the cause of Truth and Justice — 
Demands a nobler sacrifice. 

Morton. Sir Andrew, 
Whate'er your thought, let it unspoken lie 
In your own bosom. 'Till they take the form 
Of words or deeds, no law our purposes 
Can construe into treason. What is that 1 

Door in the centre opens at which the Queex appears. 

Queen. In vain, my lords, you hold these secret councils. 
Your plots are known, and, with the aid of Heaven, 
We will confound you yet. 

Retires and door closes. 

Lindsay. Was that the Queen? 

Ruthven. 'Twas the queen's voice ; but came and went 
the figure 
So suddenly, I know not if 'twere hers. 

Morton. Our game, my friends, is now for life or death. 
And we must play it out ; — nor that alone ; 
But play it quickly. In good time the king. 

Enter Darnley, who walks up and down the apartment in 
great agitation. 

Darnley. Wronged and insulted to my very face ! 

Morton. Is my lord ill 1 

Darnley. (iiot heeding him.) A fire is in my hear! 
More fierce than that within Vesuvius, 
And must have vent, if blood do quench it not, 
Though it spread desolation o'er the land ! 

Morton, good, mv lord, what is it moves you thus ? 






mzzio. 49 

Damley. What has ere now the hand of weakness 
nerved 
To grapple with and overthrow a giant — 
The Spirit of Revenge. The Queen — my wife- 
Hath played the wanton, in the face of day, 
With her false Secretary ! Heaven and earth ! 
That mine own hand upon my burning brow 
Should write this shame ! Ye look incredulous. 
Then hear and judge. An hour agone, George Douglas 
Came with the information, that this man 
Was with the queen. I sought her closet straight, 
And by the secret passage, as my wont. 
The door was barred — 

Lindsay. Then George had been deceived 1 

Damley. That had he not. I heard their murmured 
voices ; 
A moment, but no more ; and all was hushed ; 
And, to my loud demand to be admitted, 
No answer was returned.- What think ye, sirs 1 
Need any husband stronger proof than this 
Of his dishonour ? 

Lindsay. Faith, it looks not well % 

Damley. Not well, my lord 1 It looks the thing it is ;— 
A crime that blood alone can expiate. 
And since it is not lawful there to strike 
Where guilt is greatest, heavier shall fall 
My vengeance on the lesser criminal. 
He dies to-night ! 
3 



RIZZIO. 

Morton, {aside.) The very thing I wished, 
But scarce dared name ! {Aloud) Nay, not to-night, my 

lord. 
Thou gh we, with every honest heart in Scotland, 
Long for the moment we may surely crush 
The serpent that hath stung your peace and honour, 
Yet, in an enterprise so vast as this, 
We must take care to hazard nought by haste. 
It wants some hours still of the time we named 
To meet in consultation on the business 
You'd have us now dispatch ; and, till our friends 
Decide what shall be done, we can do nothing. 

Darnley. Why wait for hours to come to a resolve 
A minute can make perfect 1 My revenge 
Brooks no deliberation. He shall die. 

Morton. You have but to command, and it is done. 
But, that we be not by the world misjudged, 
And that which justice prompts not wrongly named 
The work of private malice, to a bond 
Well set our hands, in which, while we stand pledged 
To thrust aside all obstacles that bar 
You of your rights, whereof this Rizzio 
We deem the greatest far, you shall, as king,. 
Call home the banished lords, whose hearts are loyal 
To you and Scotland, whatsoe'er their faults. 
Such bond have we prepared for your approval 
And here — 

Darnley. {going to the table.) Then give it mo. I'll not 
so doubt 



RIZZIO. 51 

Your love to me as question its conditions. 

He signs, followed by Morton and the rest. 
'Tis done. Now for the course to be pursued. 
The Queen to-night doth entertain some friends, 
'Mong whom is the Italian ; and, in presence 
Of her on whose protection he relies, 
Will we strike down the vile, adulterous traitor. 

Buthven. I like this much. It gives no time for pru- 
dence 
To urge deliberation, which in words 
Would waste the energy for action needed. 
If these consent, it shall be as you wish. 

Morton, ) 

Lindsay, > We are content. 

Sir Andrew. ) 

Darnley. My good Lord Chancellor, 
To you, who have in all things proved your wisdom, 
I leave the management of this affair ; 
And give to me whatever part you will 
In this night's business, with what power I have 
I will perform it. I must leave you now. 

Morton. You will not find us laggarts in your service. 

Exit Darnley. 

Ruthven. Was ever fish caught with a hook so baited 1 
Of Rizzio jealous ! — old, ill-favoured Rizzio ! — 
When he might have for rivals gallant youths, 
The flower of all our young nobility ! 

Sir Andrew. Heaven knows I have no love for Mary 
Stuart, 



52 rizziu. 

But not my hatred so could warp my judgment, 
As make me think her guilty of the crime 
The madness of this Darnley puts upon her. 
Yet, though we know her innocent, we must 
Against her act as if her guilt were proven, 
And thereby stronger make our hold upon 
The king her husband. 

Morton. Do not count, Sir Andrew, 
Upon the gratitude of one like Darnley, 
Who, serpent-like, now stings the trusting heart 
That warmed him into life. While hot his rage 
Against the queen, he's ours. But when that cools — 
As cool it must, for he is of a metal 
Too soft his present heat long to retain — 
He will be ours no longer. While we can, 
We must make use of him, to seize the power 
We aim at. That achieved, we need not care 
With whom he sides ; — with us or with our foes. 

Scene eloses. 



Scene II. — An Antechamber. 

Enter Hilatre. 
Hilaire. Would I were older, if 'twere but a year. 
A year ! Tis a long time ! I wonder now 
If in a year- -I then shall be sixteen — 
T shall have grown to !"- ; ty? 



Methinks this chin would well become a beard. 

And well I know, if such a thing I had, 

The maidens would not flout me as they do, 

And the sweet, saucy lip of Mary Seaton 

Would be less mocking when she speaks to me. 

Yet, if she would but look into this heart, 

She'd find as much, at least, of manly truth 

As may lie hid in a more burly form. 

I love my mistress, with as fervent love 

x\s ever warmed the bosom of a vassal — ■ 

Albeit I'm of hers no vassal born ; — 

And could I, by the forfeit of my life, 

Annul the bond that links her fate with Darnley's, 

Eight gladly should the penalty be paid. 

But O that cannot be ! 

Enter Mart Seaton. 

Marij Seaton. Prithee,Sir Page, 
What mighty subject has engrossed thy brain, 
That thou art sunk so deep in meditation % 
I'll wager now a groat, thou hast some project 
For reconciling Knox to Mother Church, 
And hastening the Millenium by a acore, 
Or two, of centuries. 

Hilaire. Nay, not quite that ; 
Though one almost as wild I've entertained. 
I have been thinking, 'twere quite possible 
To find in woman's mind the germ of reason, 
If one had patience to remove the crust 



54 rizzio. 

Of folly, that prevents its shooting forth, 
And fairly had resolved to make the trial. 

Mary Sea ton. Bravo, sweet youth ! thy wit is nimble 
paced. 
But have a care it bear thee not too far, 
Or cast thee, by a sudden plunge, to earth, 
As I have seen unskilful horsemen served. 
If thou his learning hadst, as well as malice, 
Buchanan's self in thee might find a rival. 
Alack ! I fear there's something in the soil 
That nourishes the thistle, which the temper 
Sharpens far more than it improves the wit, 
Or thou, Hilaire, thy native courtesy 
Of speech and manner hadst not lost so soon. 

Hilaire. Ay, chide me if you will, but flout me not. 
For kindness oft is hid in a rebuke, 
While hatred, or — than hatred worse — contempt, 
Too frequently is found in raillery. 

Mary Seaton. Hilaire, my good Hilaire, what humour's 
this? 
Dost think that I would utter aught to wound 
The son of her who, when I was in France, 
Made me forget I had no mother there ? 
I'd rather that my tongue no more might wag — 
A heavy penance for my sex to bear ! — 
Than any word of mine should give thee pain. 
I hope thou art not angry ? (offering her hand.) 

Hilaire. {taking and kissing it.) If I were— 



55 



As I am not, nor have had cause to be — 
One word of yours, in the old tone of kindness, 
Could never fail to soothe my ruffled spirit. 
But, though not angry, I'm in no good humour. 
The life we lead in this strange court of late, 
Forever keeps my temper in a fret, 
And makes me wish, a thousand times a day, 
I had the power which fairies once possessed, 
That our dear queen, and you, and Rizzio, 
And a few others, at a word I might 
Transport to some fair island far away, 
Where broils and treasons have not even a name. 

Mary Seaton. Our life, I own, is not a pleasant one. 
But if we find it hard, what is't to hers 
Whose waking hours are filled with bickerings, 
And nightly dreams with forms of treachery 1 
We yet enjoy the blessed privilege 
Of peaceful slumber. 

Hilaire. That we shall not long. 
Above the head of our devoted mistress, 
A storm is gathering that must burst full soon ; 
And all who love her then must suffer with her. 

Mary Seaton. O Daniot, that Prophet of Disaster, 
Has been with thee, and filled thee with his spirit. 
Away with it ; and do not let the queen, 
Who fain would have a merry hour to-night, 
As in the happy time of gentle Francois, 



5S RIZZIO. 

Behold a cloud uii any brow she meets. 
Shall we go in 1 

Hilaire. Lead on. I am your shadow, 
And must attend where'er you please to go. 



Exeunt. 



Scene III. — A Covin in Holyrood. 

Enter from one side Morton, Lindsay, Ruthven, in ar- 
mour, Sir Andrew Kerr and Soldiers, and from the 
other George Douglas. 

Morion, [to George Douglas.') Where is the king? 
George Douglas. He will be here anon. 
Morton. Does still his purpose hold 1 
George Douglas. Yes, with my aid. 

I've kept him from the presence of his wife, 

Whose influence, in spite of fancied wrongs, 

I did not dare expose his weakness to ; 

And, lest the fire of anger should go out, 

I used my little skill to keep it burning. 

He's here. 

Enter Dabnlet. 

Morton. We wait the pleasure of your Grace. 

Darnley. To you, my lord, and not to me, belongs 
Control in this affair. I come to serve. 

Morton. Then, as time wears, we will proceed to 
action. 
You know your places all. My duty 'tis 
To guard the entrance to the palace. Yours, 



rizzio. 57 

Sir Andrew Kerr, with such as you may choose, 

To keep strict guard upon the outlets, whence 

The traitors, now enclosed within these walls, 

Might find egress : and (to Lindsay and Ruthven) 'tis to 

you, my lords, 
"We leave the consummation of the work 
This night must see accomplished. 

Ruthven. When we meet, 
Whether it be in this world or the next, 
You shall not say I did mine bunglingly. 

George Douglas. With my assistance, backed by these 
stout fellows, 
There's nought you would have done shall be left undone. 

Darnley. But first I will precede you by a moment, 

To see if there be aught to bar our way 

To vengeance. Follow close ; and when ye hear 

" A Douglas ! to the rescue !" enter. 

Exit. 

Ruthven. Ay, 

Will we do so, with that cry or without it. 

And firm must be the obstacle indeed 

We cannot cut our way through. Let us on. 

Exeunt Morton, Kuthven, Lindsay, Sir Andrew Kerr, and 
George Douglas, in different directions, each followed by 
soldiers. 



3* 



58 rizzio. 



Scene IV. — The Queen's Cabinet. 
The Queen, Countess of Argyle, and Lord Robert 
Stuart at one of the tables : Mary Seaton, with ladies 
and gentlemen, at another. Beaton, Hilaire, and 
others in attendance. Rizzio, with a lute, is standing a 
little behind the Queen. 

SONG.— Rizzio. 

Since of time there's nothing ours, 

Save the present fleeting minute, 
Let us wreathe the cup with flowers, 

Bright as that which bubbles in it. 

And the eager spirit lave 

In the sparkling tide of pleasure, 
Ere by life's still ebbing wave 

Borne away is every treasure. 

For the flowers to-night we twine 

May be trod to earth to-morrow, 
And where molten rubies shine 

Glitter drops of bitterest sorrow. 

Queen. I like thy song, good David, though methinks 
It hath a tone of sadness, that accords 
With this good cheer, and our light conversation, 
Scarce better than would sound of passing bell 
With pipe and tabor at a marriage feast. 
This should not be, my friend. The flowers of joy, 
That we may snatch from Time's unwilling hand, 



Rizui). 59 

Are all too few, and 0, by far too precious, 
For us to let the blight of melancholy 
Fall on their beauty. 

Rizzio. Sooth to say, sweet mistress, 
I knew not there was sadness in my song ; 
For none was meant. But as old age creeps on us, 
The spirit, losing hope, grows querulous, 
And turns unwittingly the strains of joy 
To sorrow's wail. I pray you pardon me. 

Queen. Pardon thee what % That at thy bidding comes 
not 
The spirit no One always can evoke % 
If this be crime, I fear I am not guiltless. 
For oft when to my heart I say, Be glad, 
The sturdy rebel mocks at my command, 
And fills mine eyes with sudden tears of grief. 

To Daknley, who enters by the secret passage. 
O, my good lord, I feared you would not come, 
To honour with your presence our poor supper. 
Why do you look so strange 1 All here are friends. 
Here is your place reserved. 

Making room for him by her side. 
Now let me help you. 

Damley. I cannot eat ; but I will drain a cup, 
In honour of the Mistress of the Feast, 

Takes a goblet from Beaton. 
And may her life be happy as her heart 
Is pure and loyal ; and, should dangers come, 



60 R1ZZ10. 

May she be greeted by the cry, so weli 

Her fathers loved — " A Douglas ! to the rescue !" 

Enter Lindsay, Ruthven, and George Douglas, followed by 
soldiers, who fill the back of the scene. The attendants 
press forward in confusion. Ruthven, with a swaggering 
air, comes down to the table, and throws himself into a seat 
opposite the Queen. 

Queen, (rising with dignity?) What means this inso- 
lence % 
Ruthven. I come, your Grace, 
To render justice to that traitor there. 

Queen. Tis thou, bold lord, who art the traitor here. 
Bid this man hence. 

To Darnley, wh®, without heeding her, goes round to Ruthven. 
What, is it even so 1 

Does he, who should protect, now side against me? 
'Tis well ! Lord Ruthven, as you would avoid 
The penalty of treason, get thee gone. 

Ruthven. (rising.) I cannot go without my errand, 
Madam. 
Yield then the traitor. 

Queen, (placing herself before Rizzio.) Only with my life. 

Rizzio. (unsheathing his dagger.) Giustizia ! Giustizia ! 

Ruthven. (to Darnley.) Remove the Queen. 

Darnley attempts to remove the Queen, who still keeps her 
place before Rizzio. The soldiers press forward, and are 
driven back by the attendants. In the confusion that en- 
sues, George Douglas snatches the poniard out of Darn- 
ley's belt, and thrusting the Queen rudely aside, stabs Rizzio, 
who staggers forward and falls. Lindsay and the other 
conspirators, brandishing their swords, gather around him. 

Rizzio. (raising Jmnself and looking at George Douglas.) 

The Prophet's words were sooth. 



RIZZIO. 61 

The wretch whose hand is reddened with my blood, 

Is he upon whose brow a mother's sin 

Has left the brand of shame. 

Queen, (breaking from Darnley and throwing herself by 

the side of Rizzio.) For me thou diest, 

O well beloved and most faithful servant ! 

And, whereso'er the wrongs of Mary Stuart 

Shall wake one throb of honest indignation, 

The memory of thy love and loyalty 

Shall call down blessings on thine honoured name. 

Rizzio, turning upon her a look of grateful affection, falls back 
and dies. 



THE COMPACT 



A MASK. 



CHARACTERS 



Carlos, a Vinedresser. 

Joanna, his mother. 

Inez, an orphan adopted by Joanna. 

Satan. 

Tempter. 

Attendants. 

Fiends. 

Almeyda. 

Julie. 

Dancers. 

Scene partly in Spain, partly in France, and partly in the Infer- 
nal Regions. 



THE COMPACT. 



Scene. — The interior of Joanna's cottage. Inez stand- 
ing at an open lattice, through which a hilly country 
is seen, covered with vines, and flushed with the rays of 
the setting sun. The sound of a distant hell is heard. 
Joanna enters unperceived. 

SONG.— Inez. 

Over hill and over valley- 
Gen tly floats the vesper chime, 

Bringing sadd'ning forms around me— 
Mem'ries of the olden time ! — 

When — the far uncertain future 
Hid then lay in golden haze — 

Two young hearts and voices blended 
In one song of love and praise. 

But that golden haze is scattered, 
And the path of life lies bare ; — 

Budding hopes, too fondly cherished, 
Now lie crushed and with'ring there ! 



66 THE COMPACT. 

Well may I in sadness listen, 

When, as in the olden time, 
Over hill and over valley 

Gently floats the vesper chime ! 
Joanna. {Approaching her.) What ails thee, Inez ? Thou 

art sadly changed. 
Inez. To thee, dear mother ? O, indeed I am not. 
Joanna. Nay, not to me, my child, but to thyself. 
The joy of thy young heart bi*eaks forth no more 
In merry glance. The rose hath left thy cheek. 
Thy step, that was like skilful player's touch 
Upon the lute-string, now as heavy falls 
As foot of weary age ; and the gay laugh, 
Which did so oft to merriment provoke 
The echoes of this dull old house, is hushed, 
As if the mirthful spirit, that had given 
It utterance, was fled its earthly dwelling. 
Answer me truly, art thou ill ? 
Inez. O no. 

Joanna. 'Tis very strange, if thou indeed art well 
In body and in mind, a change so marked — 

Inez, (in alarm.) So marked ? By whom has it been 

marked 1 
Joanna. By all. 
But Carlos most. Why tremble and turn pale ? 
No guilt hath stained the current of thy life — 

Inez, (earnestly.) O no. I thank my Guardian Angel ! no. 
But dearest mother, question me no farther. 






THE COMPACT. 67 

Since first I came an orphan to thy dwelling — 

The child of thy adoption — till this hour, 

I ne'er have hidden from thee aught, and now 

Do only hide what maiden modesty 

Forbids me to reveal. But hark ! a step. 

'Tis that of Carlos. Do not now detain me. 

Exit hurriedly. 

Joanna. ^Tis as I wished, yet scarcely dared to hope. 

And, ere I join my husband in the grave, 

One gleam of happiness this heart shall cheer, 

Shed from the love that doth unite my children. 

But hold. My wishes run too fast, and I 

Would gather fruit before the vine hath blossomed. 

That Inez loves my son I'm well convinced. 

But loves he her % I do not know that yet : 

But will, before my dreams another night 

Are troubled by the thoughts which long have haunted 

The chambers of my mind. And for my purpose 

Most timely doth he come. But how is this % 

Enter Carlos dejectedly, with his cap drawn over his eyes, and 
paces up and down the apartment, without appearing to notice 
his mother, who sits earnestly regarding him. 

Carlos. (To himself.) Kejected ! and with scorn ! The 
flower of hope, 
Which I so tenderly had nursed, trod down 
Into the dust by proud, remorseless Beauty ! 
Because, forsooth, her favours spiteful Fortune 
To me denies. She may not ever wed — (mimicking) 
She is not of an age to think much of it — 



<)S THE COMPACT. 

But if she should, 'twould be to place herself 

Among her equals. Equals was the word ! 

For well 'tis known, the blood that fdls her veins 

Is from a stream whence kings have drawn their life ; 

And he on whom she shall bestow her hand, 

Must not be only of a like descent, 

But one who can support with dignity 

The rank to which their birth entitles them. 

My name is humble ; — and my poverty 

Even greater than her own ; — she must decline 

With many thanks, the offer I intended ! 

And with a scornful toss of her proud head — 

But more than regal in its dazzling beauty ! — 

She left me, dumb with shame and indignation ! 

Joanna. What moves thee, Carlos? Come, and sit 
thee down, 
And tell thy mother what hath troubled thee. 

Carlos. O mother, ask me not ! My heart is crushed, 
And my brain reels in drunkenness of woe ! 

Joanna. (Rising.) O blessed saints, what has befallen 
the boy ? 

Carlos. Nay, dearest mother, do not let my grief 
Lead thee to fancy any serious ill 
Hath fallen on me. Though the blow was hard — 

Joanna. The blow 1 

Carlos. I pray thee, do not be alarmed. 
The blow I spake of was from no man's hand ; 
But dealt by woman's pride. Almeyda's scorn 



THE COMPACT. (39 

Hath hurt me sorely. But the wound, though deep, 
Will heal in time, I doubt not. Yet while green, 
'Twill tax my patience to endure the smart. 

Joanna. How could the scorn of one so vain and heart- 
less 
Give pain to him who boasts the name of man 1 

Carlos. Mother, I loved her. Nay, I love her still, 
Despite of reason and the pride of manhood, 
And must forever, though she o'er and o'er 
Should spurn the hand this eve was proffered to her. 

Joanna, {angrily.') What! would'st thou make that 
gilded toy thy wife ? 

Carlos. Make her my wife ? Had 1 the hidden wealth 
Of caves yet unexplored, in that far land 
Adventurers do tell of, at her feet 
Eight gladly would I lay it all, if she 
Would for the gorgeous gift accept the giver. 
But I am poor, and must not even hope ! 

Joanna. Out on thee, boy ! sooner than see thee wed 
A thing so worthless, I — in mine old age — 
Would to the highway go and beg for thee. 
My son, my son ! why, with regardless foot, 
Wilt thou to earth as sweet a floweret tread 
As ever blessed the day, while to thy bosom 
Thou tak'st a nettle that will sting thee ever ? 

Carlos. What is this flower which I to earth would tread ? 

Joanna. How can'st thou ask? Hast thou forgotten 
Inez ? 



70 THE COMPACT. 

Carlos. Forgotten Inez ? — gentle, truthful Inez ! — 
The playmate of ray childhood ? The one friend 
That stood between me and the chastisement 
My wayward boyhood did too oft deserve 1 
As soon could I forget myself, my mother. 
But what has the remembrance of dear Inez 
To do with my wild passion for Almeyda ? 

Joanna. With that not much. But with thy happiness, 
Unthinking boy ! far more than I can say. 
She loves thee, in all maiden modesty, 
With woman's pure and unobtrusive love. 

Carlos. A love like that would scarcely satisfy 
A heart so vast in its desires as mine. 

Joanna. So vast in its desires ! What folly's this ? 
Would'st be content to call Almeyda thine, 
Regardless whether she returned thy passion, 
Yet slight the love that, with unwavering flame, 
Warms the soft bosom of my gentle Inez 1 

Carlos. Mother, on this I cannot argue with thee, 
I love sweet Inez with a brother's love — 
And ever must — but O ! what now I feel 
For the unparalleled Almeyda is 
No kin to this. — It is idolatry ! 
And I will win her — scorn me as she may — 
Though for the wealth, which she so highly prizes, 
I barter my salvation ! 

Joxtnna. Impious boy ! 



THE COMPACT. 71 

Down on thy knees, and cry to Heaven for pardon. 
For me, I will go weep my ruined hopes. 

Exit weeping. 
Carlos. I grieve thus to have pained the kindest heart 
That ever beat within a parent's breast. 
But goodness is not always reasonable. 
And 'tis unreasonable of a mother, 
To seek to change the current of affection 
From its true course. I love dear Inez well- 
But O, my frenzied love for thee, Almeyda ! 
Is such as Indian worshipper may feel 
For that stern god, before whose bloody car 
He falls, and by his death proves his devotion. 
O Gold Omnipotent ! thou art the key 
That canst alone unlock the human heart ; 
And with thee yet may I an entrance find 
Into the bosom pride hath firmly barred. 
But how, alas ! can one condemned to toil 
Of thy vast power obtain the mastery 1 
Shall I go seek for thee among the sands 
Of wondrous streams, whose sources yet are hid 
By trackless forests of the western world 1 
Or league with bands of bold adventurers, 
Who, stooping not to dig thee from the earth, 
Do wring thee from the hands of savage men, 
Who reck not of thy worth ! 1 know not yet. 
But, as thine aid is needed for my purpose, 
Mine must thou be — and shalt. Let me think how. 



7 '2 THE COMPACT. 

Throws himself into a seat, and appears lost in thought. Low 
melancholy music is heard, and his Guardian Axgel, with 
a countenance full of sorrow, bends over him. 

Guardian Angel. 

Child of earth ! — yet Heir of Heaven! — 

To and fro by passion driven ; — 

Right at heart, but wrong in will ; — j 

Knowing good, yet choosing ill ; — 

Whom, with faithful watch and ward, 

I have strove from sin to guard ; — 

Wayward mortal ! though it grieve me, 

To thyself awhile I leave thee, 

Till by sorrow — teacher stern ! — 

Thine own weakness thou dost learn ; 

Hoping, when the trial's o'er, 

Fiery though it be and sore, 

Thou in low content may'st rest, 

Blessing as thou shalt be blest. 

The music becomes of a vrild unearthly character, and the room 
is filled with a dense mist, in which Carlos is completely en- 
veloped. Gradually it disappears ; when Carlos and the Temp- 
ter, who is disguised as a vinedresser, are discovered stand- 
ing together in an open country. 

Tempter. Nay, cheer thee, lad ! Why. what a brow is 
here ? 
Dost think it one to win a maiden's heart ? 
No, by my troth ! it would provoke the mirth 
Of any of her sex, to see that visage, 
So wobegone ! and hear the dolorous sighs 
Which shake thy bulk ! And all for u-hat ? A girl ! 



THE COMPACT. 73 

A lovely one, I grant ; — yet but a girl, 

That may be won, if any man should think 

'Twere worth his while to woo her like a man. 

Another sigh % Pshaw ! Here ( Giving him a flask) is 

that will drive 
The vapours off that cloud upon thy brain ; 
And make thee see how weak it is to grieve 
When work is to be done. 

Carlos, [after drinking.) How potently 
Thy liquor works ! New spirit seems infused 
Into my jaded form ; and hope again 
Sits smiling at my heart. There is no project, 
However vast, my teeming brain might form, 
I now would shrink from. Show me but the way 
To win the gold Almeyda's love demands, 
And I will follow it — lead where it may. 

Tempter, (mysteriously?) There is a way. 

Carlos. Name it. 

Tempter. Thou wilt not try it. 

Carlos. What, thinkest thou that I lack courage then ? 

Tempter. I know thee brave enough to aid a friend 
By peril of thy life, for I have seen thee 
Contend with the enraged, unsparing waters 
For one poor youth, who otherwise had perished. 
And do not doubt that thou thy foe would'st meet. 
And never flinch, even in the death encounter. 
But then I fear — - 

Carlos. What 1 ? 
4 



74 THE COMPACT. 

Tempter. Thou wilt shrink from this, 
Carlos. Shrink from it % Why % 
Tempter. It is beset with clangers 
Would seem for mortal strength too formidable, 
Because not of the earth. List to my tale. 
I had an uncle once — a learned wight — 
To whom the lore forbid by' Mother Church 
Was more familiar than his Pater Noster. 
The secrets of that world, which from our eyes 
The Master of all Worlds with jealous care 
Hath hidden, were made visible to him ; 
And at his death the knowledge, which, with years 
Of patient labour, he had won, to me 
He did bequeath. Now, at a word of mine, 
Wilt thou but bid me speak it, thou shalt see 
More treasure than would buy ten thousand maidens. 
And each than thy Almcyda ten times prouder. 
Carlos. O speak it then, and quick ! 
Tempter. Not now, nor here. 
But walk with me towards yon giant mountain, 
Whose shadow keeps in everlasting night 
The valley lying at his feet, where we, 
Shall find a cave, that to the frightened peasant 
Seems the huge mouth of some devouring monster, 
Which we must enter. Hast thou nerve for that 1 

Carlos, {proudly.) If thou hast doubts, lead on and 
learn. 



THE COMPACT. 75 

Tempter. Then follow. 

Exeunt. 

Wild and unearthly music is again heard ; when the Scene chan- 
ges to a mountainous region, among the rocks of which is 
discovered a deep cave. The Tempter, followed at a short 
distance by Carlos, enters, and stops before the cave, from 
which strange noises, with frequent mutterings of thunder 
and flashes of lightning, proceed. 

Tempter. Still holds thy courage ? 

Carlos. Hast thou seen it falter ? 
The mountain that o'erhangs us does not stand 
More firm than my resolve. Lead where thou wilt. 

They enter the cavern, which suddenly closes with a tremen- 
dous crash, followed by harsh and discordant music ; wnen 
the Scene changes to a gorgeous temple, with an altar in the 
centre, brilliantly lighted and adorned with fruits and flowers 
formed of precious stones, surmounted by a golden image 
wearing a crown, at the feet of which a book is lying. Soft 
and seductive music is heard followed immediately by the 
entrance of the Tempter and Carlos. 

Tempter. Thou standest now in mighty Mammon's 
Temple — 
Mammon the only god that all men worship. 
Kneel and adore. 

Carlos, (stoutly.) That will I but to Heaven. 

A clap of thunder is heard, and the temple violently shaken, as 
by an earthquake. 

Tempter. Another word like that, and I will bid 

This temple fall and grind thee into dust ! 

What ! wilt not _ give the homage of thy knee 

To him who has the worship of thy heart? 

Invisible Singers. 

O Power Supreme ! Almighty Gold ! 

How oan thy praise in words be told % 



7(^ THE COMPACT. 

Thou rul'st the state; dost win the fight ; 
Unblushing wrong thou turn'st to right ; 
The vot'ry from the shrine dost win, 
And virtue mak'st of deadly sin. 
The bond, the free, the young, the old, 
All worship thee, O Gold, Gold, Gold ! 

Thou dost from proud and courtly dame 

And cloistered maid like homage claim : 

The pride of boastful Chivalry 

Bends to the dust to honour thee. 

While Learning, with his haughty crest, 

Thine humblest slave to be were blest. 

All hearts thou melt'st, however cold, 

For thou art Love, Gold, Gold, Gold ! 

At the beginning of the song the Tempter kneels, and, before 
the conclusion, is followed by Carlos. 

Tempter, (as they rise.') Thine homage done, there is 

but one thing more 

To make the wealth thy heart dost covet thine. 

Unclasp the book which lies upon the altar, 

And with the noble names therein enrolled, 

Inscribe thine own. 'Tis in a minute done. 

Carlos hesitates. 

Invisible Singers. 

Sign, sign, sign ! 

And all things are thine. 

"Whate'er thou know'st of pleasure ; 

Length of days, and changeless youth ; 






THE COMPACT. 7? 

Health unfailing ; countless treasure ; 
Woman's love, and woman's truth ; 

Each and all are thine. 

Sign, then sign ! 

He ascends the altar with faltering steps, and, after an effort, 
signs, Avhen a loud laugh rings through the temple. 

Invisible Singers. 
He is ours ! he is ours ! the fiat is spoken ! 
The bond that unites us shall never be broken ! 
The ashes of earth shall be scattered forever : 
The soul must endure, and depart from us never. 

For dross of the earth, that poor mortals call treasure ; 
A lewd woman's smile, and a moment of pleasure, 
His right hath he bartered to glories eternal, 
And chosen his lot among spirits infernal. 

From depths of that deep which no plummet hath sounded, 
Ye fiends ! lift your voices in gladness unbounded ! 
A triumph once more have we gained over Heaven, 
The sin hath been sinned that cannot be forgiven ! 

Carlos, terrified and bewildered, staggers down from the altar, 
and falls. Fierce and triumphant music is heard, mingled 
with mockinglaughter from all parts of the temple, imme- 
diately followed by impenetrable darkness : when the Scene 
changes to a magnificent apartment in the Chateau d'Or , 
in France, into which Carlos enters, leading Almeyda splen- 
didly attired. 

Carlos. My beautiful ! the eye is never sated 

With gazing on thy charms ; nor is the ear 

With drinking in the music of thy voice. 



78 THE COMPACT. 

O my Almeyda ! may Heaven's benison 
Eest on the hour that led me to thy dwelling, 
Among the vines of lovely Andalusia ! 

Almeyda. (impatiently). O good my lord, name not a 
place so lowly 
Beneath this gorgeous roof. 

Carlos. And wherefore not 1 
'Twas poor, I grant ; but, humble as it was, 
Within it did not I a treasure find 
That would enrich a palace 1 Why dost smile 1 

Almeyda. To think of thy sad plight the night thou 
earnest 
Unto our door, for shelter from the storm, 
That for thy 'broidered garb and jewelled cap 
Had shown small reverence. 

Carlos. 'Twas a blessed chance 
That parted me from my attendants, when, 
Amid the storm, beneath thy father's roof 
I shelter found, and hospitality, 
And love. 

Almeyda. But found, in her who gave that love, 
A thoughtless, wayward girl, who home and friends 
Did leave — to be the leman of a stranger. 

Carlos. Dost thou regret that act ? 

Almeyda. No, in good sooth. 
Else had I been the wife of some vine-dresser, 
Some clod, like that poor Carlos whom I spake of. 



THE COMPACT. 79 

But, if it were not so, hast thou not been 

Than home and friends — than all far more to me ? 

Carlos. Sweet flatterer. Well? (To the Tempter, who 
enters disguised as the Major Domo.) 

Tempter. My lord, I have prepared 
A small divertisement, for the amusement 
Of our most gracious mistress. To the Court, 
Sojourning at Versailles, a troop of dancers 
Are on their way ; and at their head is one 
Who has no parallel for grace or heauty 
In all the realm of France. Of France ? Nay, faith ! 
She has no equal in the lands of Europe, 
Nor in the worlds beyond. With much persuasion, 
Have I prevailed upon them to remain 
This night in the chateau ; and, if it please you, 
They now will give a sample of their skill. 
May 1 admit them 1 

Carlos. What says my Almeyda '? 

Almeyda. (with indifference). Even as thou wilt. I am 

content to sit. 

Exit Tempter. 

Carlos leads Almeyda to a seat, and places himself by her 
side. The Tempter enters, marshalling the dancers, who, 
after due obeisance to the lord and lady of the mansion, per- 
form a characteristic dance, which is terminated upon the en- 
trance of Julie, who bounds forward and dances by herself, 
when the Tempter, coming to the side of Carlos, directs 
his attention to her, to the evident annoyance of Almeyda. 

Carlos, (abstractedly.) How beautiful ! Were ever 

power and grace 



SO THE COMPACT. 

So admirably blended ! Now in air 

She seems to float, obeying every impulse 

Of the uncertain breeze ; anon, with step 

Firm as the foot of the rock-scaling chamois. 

She bounds along the earth ; then springs aloft. 

And hovers o'er us, like a happy bird 

Whose home is Heaven ! Though nothing but a creature, 

So like Divinity it seems, 'twould scarce 

Be deemed idolatry to worship it. 

Almeyda. {ironically.) My lord is eloquent. 

Carlos. Strong admiration 
Must aye be so — or dumb. 

Almeyda. (scornfully.) Then it were better 
To chain our tongues, than lavish gems of speech 
In commendation of a dancing girl. 

Carlos, (sharply. ,) The good are ever ready to believe 
Goodness in others. This fair dancing girl, 
Whose mode of life mayhap was not her choice, 
May be as kind in heart, and pure in thought 
As many, who have ne'er been forced for bread 
To make a liberal display of charms 
All must admire — or envy. 

Almeyda. (with a scornful laugh.") Truly spoken ! 
And charitably ! 

Carlos, (taking a jewelled goblet, filled loith wine, from 
a table near, and handing it to the Tempter. ) Bear to yon 
fair lady 



THE COMPACT. 81 

This cooling draught ; and pray her keep the cup, 
For sake of him who sends it. 

Almeyda. {starting up.') By thy leave, 
I'll be thy cup-hearer. 

Taking the goblet, she pours poison into it, 'unseen by any but 
the Tempter,w1io manifests his delight, and pre "+«* it to 
Julie, -who, with a lowly reverence, takes it and drinks. 

Julie, (throwing away the cup.') Heavens ! I am 
poisoned ! 
She falls into the arms of the dancers, who have been grouped 
around her, and is borne away to the sound of mel mcholy 
music. 

Tempter, {exultingly.) It was my lady's act ! — I saw 
her do it. 

Carlos, {springing towards him.) Audacious liar ! 

Tempter, (coolly.) Let her then deny it. 
Look in her face, my lord. What would you more ? 

Carlos. It is, alas ! too plain ! Guilt there is writ 
In characters that cannot be mistaken ! 

Covers his face with his hands, and staggers to a seat 

Almeyda. (boldly.) Deny it do I not. Nay, glory in it. 
Why do ye look in wonderment upon me ? 
Is it so strange that weak, defenceless woman, 
Whom custom has denied the right to challenge 
Unto the lists the one who does her wrong, 
Should seek by other means her just revenge ? 
I have been outraged in my love. An outrage 
That nor my nature nor my sex can bear. 
And, as my hand is all too weak to deal 
With him who did commit the wrong, I chose 
4* 



S2 THE COMPACT. 

To wreak my vengeance on his instrument. 

And now declare, were it to do again, 
That I would do it, with no more remorse 
Than feels the foot in treading out the life 
Of noxious insect ! 

Carlos, {rising.) Take her from my sight ! 
And let her feel the keenest sufferings 
Severest justice has for crime devised. 

Almeyda. (j)roudly.) Ay, take me hence, that I may see 

no more 

The face of him who tempted me to sin, 

By dazzling my weak brain with blaze of wealth. 

Alas I alas ! thy words were sooth, my mother ! — 

Unholy love shall have unholy end ! 

She is seized by the Tempter and other attendants, and drag- 
ged off to triumphant music. 

Voice from Above, 

Sweet the cup to the eager lip 

That pleasure gives the young to sip, 

And brightly sparkles to their eyes ; — 

Yet in its depths a poison lies ! 

Poison that fdls with fire each vein, 
Scars and maddens heart and brain ; 
Killing life in the blooming form, ~ 
And the soul gives to th' undying worm ! 
Carlos, (musingly.) To what a state of wretchedness 
have I 



THE COMPACT. 88 

Myself condemned ! My cup of life embittered ;— 
My soul's perdition sealed with mine own hand ! — 
And all for what ? For Gold— accursed Gold ! — 
To buy a wanton's love ! — one proud and jealous — ■ 
And vengeful more than either proud or jealous — 
Who would have shut from me the common air, 
Or poisoned it, if that I dared to breathe it 
Without her high permission ;— whose fierce love— 
If love that can be called, which not the man, 
But the man's rank and grandeur had inspired-- 
Was harder than another's hate to bear ! 

foolish heart ! at what a fearful price 

Have thy desires been bought ! But how is this 1 
Am I repentant 1 That indeed were folly ! 

1 chose my fate, and like a man will bear it. 

"Walks slowly out, and the Scene changes to a highway. A 
dead march is heard, and a procession enters, conducting 
Almeyda, in the garb of a condemned criminal, to execution. 

DEATH CHANT. 
When bright the world before us, and pleasures beckon on, 
And seems the coming moments more fair than moments 

gone ; 
When, like a mettled courser that sees the goal is nigh, 
The heart bounds forward merrily, 'tis hard, indeed, to die. 

But when we have grown weary of the bickerings and 

strife — 
The droppings of the bitter fount that wear away our 
life ; 



84 THE COMPACT. 

The tree of life is verdureless, its trunk and routs are dry, 
Than rest to the worn traveller 'tis sweeter then to die. 

But when we've madly trampled down the blessings in 

our path, 
And for the love of human kind have courted hate and 

wrath, 
To go from sin and suffering to meet the Judge on High, 
When hope of mercy there is none — 'tis terrible to die ! 

As the procession passes out, Carlos enters followed by the 
Tempter disguised as a friar. 

Carlos, {angrily.) Why art thou here? Didlnotbid 
thee leave me 1 

Tempter. You did, my lord ; but that I cannot do. 
Indeed, so strong is my attachment to you, 
I do not think I e'er can leave you more. 

Carlos. What means this insolence % 

Tempter. What insolence % 
Can the expression of a man's regard 
Be construed insolence'? I love your lordship, 
And, as we cannot always dwell together 
Upon this slippery ball, which men call Earth, 
Why I have come to take you home with me, 
Where there shall be no parting. 

Carlos. What dost mean'? 

Tempter. Well, if I must be plain, why thus it is. 
There was a promise written in the Book 
That lay on Mammon's altar. You, perhaps, 
Did mark it not. I will repeat it to you. 



THE COMPACT. 85 

" /or iljc plfe mi) ncca reriutrcs, 
Jlno alt saitsftcis fosires, 
JJ gum mt) soul MiitljCMt foittrei 
€0 coerlasting fires." 

You have received the gold your need required, 

And all desires been fully satisfied ; — 

So far 'tis well. Your promise now I claim. 

Carlos, (alarmed.) Thou canst not mean it ? 

Tempter. Do you think I joke % 

Drops his disguise, and stamping upon the ground, fiends come 
up and seize Carlos. 

What think. you t now 1 This does not look like joking. 

Carlos, (throwing himself on his knees.) Spare me ! 

O spare me ! if but for a day. 

Tempter. A day % Ha ! ha ! 

Carlos. O then a single hour ! 

Tempter. Trifler ! no more ! Slaves, do the work of 

Justice ! 

The fiends seize Carlos, and, the earth opening, descend with 
him into it, amid flames, followed by wild, exulting laughter, 
and harsh, but triumphant music ; and the Scene changes to 
the Infernal Regions, discovering Satan upon a burning 
throne, wrapped in a robe of flame, with a blazing crown 
upon his head, surrounded by the princes and nobles of his 
court. In the distance is a lake of liquid fire, over which, like 
a canopy, hangs a cloud of impenetrable blackness. 

Satan. A sound comes from the earth, that to mine ears 

Is ever pleasant. 'Tis the frenzied cry 

Of one of that new race — strangely compounded 

Of matter and of spirit — formed to fill 

The places our revolt in Heaven left vacant-— 



8G THE COMPACT. 

For his lost heritage, by his own act. 

And though the creature is endowed to soar 

To the empyrean, yet the earthly portion, 

Of his mixed nature, drags the heavenly down 

To grovel in the du-^t, 'till for a mess 

Of pottage, to appease the moment's hunger, 

He sells his birthright of eternal glory. 

But, lo ! he comes. Begin the song of welcome. 

SONG OF THE FIENDS. 
Outcast from the face of Heaven ! 
Sinner not to be forgiven ! 
Lo ! all Hades moves to meet thee, 
While with welcome glad we greet thee. 

To the home of sprites infernal, 
To the place of woes eternal, 
Where the worm of conscience never 
Dies, but gnaws, and gnaws forever, 

Welcome, welcome, welcome ! 

Where no ray of hope e'er gladdens, 

But despair forever maddens, 

Whose fierce pangs are— never ceasing— 

Still beginning, still increasing. 

To the grave of the undying, 
Where the soul, in anguish lying, 
Rest shall never, while in motion 
Heaves Eternity's black ocean, 

Welcome, welcome, welcome ! 



THE COMPACT* 87 

They move towards the entrance, where Carlos is seen, in the 
custody of the fiends under the command of the Tempter. 

Carlos, {throwing himself at the feet of Satan). Mercy! 
mercy ! 

Satan, (spuming him.') t)ost thou come to mock us? 

Ask mercy here, where every thing declares 

How terrible the Wrath the guilty suffer 1 

Ho, slaves ! take from my sight this puling wretch, 

And cast him into yonder Sea of Fire 1 

A number of fiends rush tumultuously towards Carlos, and are 
about to seize him, when the Scene changes to the 

Chamber of Inez, lighted by the moon shining through an 

open lattice. Inez enters slowly, and, seating herself 

at the lattice, looks up toivards the moon,, 

SONG.— Inez. 

Sweet, lady moon ! when forth thou com'st, 
Like princely dame among her maids, 

With thy bright train, a holy calm 

All heaven o'erspreads and earth pervades. 

And on the troubled spirit falls 

Thy loving smile — so pure and mild — • 

As soothingly as mother's song 
Upon the ear of weary child* 

O peaceful moon ! how oft have I, 

Amid life's storms and misery, 
Asked for the aid of angel's wings 

To rise from earth and dwell with thee ! 



88 THE COMPACT. 

Joanna, {entering with a light.) Not yet abed? I 
thought on age alone 
The curse of sleeplessness had been pronounced. 

Inez. I Avas not weary ; and I thought to while 
An hour away, in looking out upon 
The tranquil beauty of this summer-night, 
And list the melody made by the breeze 
In dallying with the vines. 'Tis sweet employ. 
But why art thou astir ? 

Joanna. Methought I heard 
A cry of pain ; and fearing thou wert ill 
I hurried to thy chamber. Hark ! again. 

A cry is heard 
Inez, (starting up.) It is the voice of Carlos. Let us 
hasten, 
And learn the cause. 

Takes the light and hurries out, followed by Joanna. 

Scene the same as the first. Carlos lying on his face on 
the floor. Enter Inez followed by Joanna. 
Inez. Great heaven ! what is this ? 
Joanna, (bending over him. ) My son ! My son ! 
Carlos, (raving.) Away ! ye torturing fiends ! 
Joanna. He does but dream. (Shaking him.) Awake 

thee, boy, awake ! 
Carlos, (starting up.) Where am I? Here? In my own 

happy home 1 
With thee, my mother 1 and my darling Inez ? 



THE COMPACT. SO 

And all my sin and suffering but a dream ? 
O Heaven ! I thank thee for this timely lesson ! 
Dear mother, there is happiness before us, 
If thou wilt beg my early playmate here 
To be my life's companion. 

Joanna. Beg her, boy 1 
Ay, on my knees, if that be necessary. 

Inez. Nay, mother that is not. If Carlos wish it, 
Here is my hand, {offering her hand.) 

Carlos, {seizing and hissing it.) A thousand, thousand 

thanks ! 

They kneel before Joanna for her blessing ; the Guardian An- 
gel appears above them with a smiling countenance, and the 
back of the scene is filled with good spirits. 

CHORUS OF GOOD SPIRITS. 
Joy ! the hour of trial's o'er ! 
Reason has her sway resumed ; 
And the darkened mind once more 
Is by light from Heaven illumed ! 
By an angel's hand, the chain 
That the spirit bound is shivered, 
And from passion, grief and pain 
Is the slave of sense delivered 

Joy ! Joy ! Joy ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



[Most of the following'pieces have already appeared in print. Some in 
certain stories, of which the world knows very little ; and others in 
periodicals of limited circulation. But none without some faults 
that stood in need of correction. This correction has been here at- 
tempted ; with what success, the reader who may have met them 
before, is the best able to judge.] 



HAN-YEKBY, 



" My brother's head is very white, 
The snows of many winters there 
Have fallen ; and from the Spirit Land 
Come voices on the air, 
That tell him he must soon depart 
To fields beyond the setting sun ; 
Where, to the braves who have before 
Him gone, he will in turn tell o'er 
The deeds which he has done ; — 
And with the noblest warriors there 
Full well'my brother's may compare. 

" Then let my brother tell me true. 
Is he Han-Yerry's friend indeed 1 
But think, beneath whose tomahawk 
My brother's kin did bleed ; 
Who did his wigwam burn ; and who 
Upon his wife and children crept 
Where they for safety lay, and w uld. 



94 HAN-YERKY, 

But that on guard my brother stood, 
Have slain them as they slept. 
No more as foes do we conteud ; 
But can he be Han-Yerry's friend 1" 

" The Whiteman would, when strife is o'er, 

The evils of the strife forget. 

The hatchet we have buried deep ; 

And smoked the calumet. 

Then what would my Red brother more 

To prove the Paleface is his friend V 

" Let this pappoose," the Indian said, 

As towards a wondering little maid 

He did his hand extend, 

" Whose smiles my brother's heart delight, 

Go with Han-Yerry home to-night. 

" No bird sings for Han-Yerry now. 

The voices that he loved to hear 

Have passed — like songs of other springs — 

No more to glad his ear : 

His sons and daughters — where are they 1 

All scattered like autumnal leaves ! 

And, thinking of her children gone, 

Sits in her silent hut alone 

Han-Yerry's squaw and grieves. 

These sunny smiles will bid depart 

The cloud that rests upon her heart." 



HAN-YERRY. 

The babe that on her grandsire's knee 

"Was seated, close and closer pressed 

Unto him, 'till her little head 

Was laid upon his breast. 

And from her seat the mother sprang, 

With words of fear and gestures wild — 

And yet defiance in her mien — 

And stood with outstretched hands between 

The Indian and her child. 

But calmly did the old man raise 

His eye to meet the warrior's gaze. 

He fain would made that Chief his friend ; 

And knew no words, however kind, 

Nor deeds, if shadowed by distrust, 

The Redman's faith can bind. 

Now striving with fond words to soothe 

The terrors of the little maid ; 

And then — a harder task is here — 

To calm the trembling mother's fear, 

Yet not in vain — essayed ; 

He rose and to the warrior saith, 

" My life upon Han-Yerry's faith ! 

" This blessing of our home we give 
Unto my brother's care tOrnight :^- ; 
And as he deals with her, will him 
The Whiteman's God x'equite : — 



95 



96 HAN-YERRY. 

And may her presence drive away 
The grief that clouds the spirit now 
Of his poor wife." A sudden gleam 
Of joy — a quickly-fading beam — 
Flushed o'er Han-Yerry's brow. 
Yet he no word of thanks did say ; 
But took the child, and went his way. 

To make her darling's absence short, 
Away to bed the mother crept ; 
But when she knelt her down to pray , 
She named her babe and wept. 
The whipporwill sang in the bush, 
The catydid sang in the tree, 
The meadows, and the fields beyond, 
Sent voices up, — so did the pond — 
To swell their minstrelsy. 
Familiar sounds and pleasant ; still 
To her they boded nought but ill. 

And then, her trial to forget, 

In spirit with that company 

In grief their Lord who followed, went 

She up to Calvary. 

And when she marked the bitter woe 

Of her beneath the Cross who stood, 

The Maiden-Mother, who in One 

Dread Sufferer saw her God and Son, 



HAN-YERRY. 97 

And mingled with His blood 

Her tears. " what," she criedj " to thine, 

Sweet Mother ! are such griefs as mine V 

At length into unquiet sleep 

She fell ; but started soon again. 

Did she not hear the Indian whoop % 

Her babe is surely slain ! 

Yes, in those soft and sunny curls — 

Those curls of which she oft had felt 

So proud — a savage hand is twined ! — 

A feeble scream comes on the wind ! — 

And, dangling at his belt, 

She sees the scalp of her- sweet child ! 

And springeth up with horror wild. 

She cannot rest within the house. 

But will, though dark the hour and late. 

Hie to Han-Yerry's forest lair, 

And know her infant's fate. 

But pausing on her father's words ; — 

" Of this proud Chief distrust to show, 

Were but to turn a useful friend, 

Who yet may needful succour lend, 

Into a direful foe :" — 



98 HAN-YKRKY. 

Betook her to her bed again ; 

And strove to sleep — but strove in vain.. 

But lustily and cheerily 

Bold chanticleer salutes the day. 

And, earlier than the earliest bird, 

Hope trills her matin lay. 

" Look up ! the clouds are flying fast,. 

Light ever is of darkness born. 

No heart beyond its strength is tried. 

And for a night though grief abide, 

Joy cometh with the morn ! 

Then rest on what thy father saith — 

' My life upon Han-Yerry's faith !' " 

She rises ; and, while yet a few 
Pale stars are dimly burning seen, 
Goes through the dew that heavily 
Lies on the pastures green. 
But thinking it is all too soon 
To leave their sweet, soft grassy beds, 
The lazy kine, as she draws near, 
With looks betraying nought of fear, 
Turn round their heavy heads, 
And scarce are willing up to stand, 
Though urged by her familiar hand. 

Her milk is strained ; her pans are set ; 
Before the door the churn is rolled. 



HAN-iTERKY. 99 

And, as the dasher briskly plays, 

'Tis spotted o'er with gold. 

But little does the mother heed 

The work on which sheseems intent — 

For dreadful fears her bosom goad — 

And ever on the hillside road 

Her eager gaze is bent. 

" Why come they not !■ why come they not !" 

Though mute her lips, is still her thought. 

But it is early yet. The sun 

Has not upon the meadow shone ; 

Where, though the mower swings his scythe, 

A swath is not yet mown. 

The breakfast hour will bring them sure. 

The breakfast hour is come and gone ; — 

The children all — their daily rule — 

Have kissed, and trooped away to school. 

O where's her little one 1 

Towards the hillside road again 

She turns, and looks — and looks in vain. 

The sun climbs slowly up the sky. 
The clock, that never stopped before. 
Moves not, although it ticking keeps a 
Behind the parlour door. 
She takes her wheel and tries to spin. 



100 HAN-VERRV. 

'Tis spoiling wool, not making yarn. 
A little meal she wets, and then 
Away she goes to feed the hen 
That's sitting in the barn. 
Alas ! this eagerness for change 
Betrays in her a spirit strange. 

Her father bendeth o'er his book, 
Without a shade upon his brow, 
Though sorely he must miss the babe 
That should be home ere now. 
Perhaps, in tenderness to her, 
His own sad fears he doth conceal. 
Him will she to confession bring, 
Or else, by cunning questioning, 
His secret from him steal. 
But still, as heretofore, he saith, 
" My life upon Han-Yerry's faith." 

And now the elms beside the gate 
Towards the north their shadows cast ; 
The dinner horn is blown ; and now 
The dinner hour is past. 
The meadow is alive again ; 
And thither is her father gone, 
And all that can with fork or rake 
The new hay spread or wind-rows make ; 



KAN-YERRY. 101 

And she is left alone. 

She has her work upon her knees, 

Yet nothing but the road she sees. 

The wretch that on his couch is laid, 

With fever scorched and racked with pain, 

And begs but for a single cup 

Of water — and in vain, 

May something of the longing know, 

And something of the weariness 

Of that poor mother's heart. But, O ! 

Its stil) increasing weight of woe . 

He cannot even guess, 

As hope forever disappears, 

And leaves it crushed beneath her fears. 

But when the elder children come 

From school, and eager are to learn 

Why did their little sister go 1 

And when will she return % 

Or if they must not hope to see 

Their merry little playmate more % 

The fountains of her heart unlock, 

And water, gushing from the rock, 

Now at her eyes runs o'er ; 

And she w ill forth, whate'er may come, 

And seek her babe, and bring it home. 



102 HAS-YERRT. 

And as the shadows of the hills 
Lie stretched across the meadows far, 
And homeward weary young and old 
From toil returning are, 
Before her father shall come in, 
By counsel or command to change 
Her purpose, rushes she away — 
Her garments all in disarray, 
And wild her looks and strange ! — 
When, coming down the hill, she saw 
Han-Yerry, followed by his squaw. 

And on her back the Indian wife 

A little creature, dark and wild, 

Now bears. The mother's heart grows sick. 

O, Heaven ! where is her child % 

The Redman passed without a word. 

But laughed the squaw right merrily ; 

While the pappoose, in savage dress, 

Like native of the wilderness, 

Did clap its hands with glee. 

The Indian trick is quickly guessed; — 

And clasped the babe is to her breast ! 

Between the Redman and the White 
The friendship planted by this trust 
Grew up into a tree, which spreads 



HAN-YERRY. 103 

Its branches o'er their dust. 

And in its pleasant shade now dwell, 

Like brethren of one family, 

The remnant of Han-Yerry's race 

And children of the good Pale-face 

In perfect amity. 

So ends my tale. The moral's plain 5 — 

Mast's faith jn man is seldom vain. 



"GOD SEETH. 



When grazed the red deer "on these plains 

That now the white man tills, 
And ere the woodman's axe awoke 

The echo of those hills, 
Within the sound of yonder fall, 

O'er which, in spray and foam, 
The Hoosic's silver flood is dashed, 

A hunter made his home, 

And to this Indian hunter's hut 

An old man came to die. 
Not one was there of all he'd known 

And loved in days gone by. 
Not one that, in his native speech, 

A welcome could extend 
To him whose weary pilgrimage 

Was drawing to an end. 



" GOD SEETH." 105 

But kindness has a thousand ways 

Her meaning to impart, 
And, though not understood her words, 

Her accents thrill the heart ; 
And never had that aged man, 

Though he on Christian ground 
Had wandered long, than in this hut 

A kindlier welcome found. 

He died. His grave beneath yon pine 

By savage hands was made ; 
And there, unblest by priest or prayer, 

His crumbling bones are laid. 
And, save what he on birchen scroll 

In dying moments traced, 
Of him, his joys and sorrows, now 

All memory is effaced, 

" God Seeth ! ' I have wandered far, 

That I might feel no more 
These words, that turned my blood to ice, 

And seared my brain of yore. 
But as his victim meets him still 

Where'er the murderer fleeth, 
Before me aye, where'er I turn, 

I see inscribed — ' God Seeth ! ' 
5* 



106 ' GOD SEETH." 

"I've stood where Heela's light has flashed j 

I've roved with Tartar bands, 
And crossed with sons of Ishmael 

Zahara's burning sands ; 
I've clomb where Winter sits amid 

Mont Blanc's eternal snows, 
Yet 'gainst these words, ' God Seeth ! ' could 

My aching sight ne'er close. 

" Though his power, the right to man 

Our God has never given, 
To make his fellows tread with him 

His chosen path to Heaven ; 
And though our brother may be wrong, 

While we his errors mourn, 
Shall we refuse to bear with him 

With whom his God hath borne ? 

"Alas, I thought not always thus ! 

But, in my bigot zeal, 
Who would not own my creed the best, 

Were sure my wrath to feel ; 
And what, had I the sufferer been, 

I loudly would condemn 
As most oppressive cruelty, 

But justice was to them. 



" GOD SEETH." 107 

" Yet many a one was leagued with me 

Who might have taught my youth, 
That Charity should not be lost 

In battling for the Truth. 
And had her holy spirit but 

Our councils led that night, 
How changed had been the scene from that 

I tremble now to write. 

" We fired the poor, but peaceful, homes 

Of those who bowed the knee 
At shrines, which had been sacred held 

Through many a century. 
The cries of fear, of grief and pain 

Did music seem most fit 
To mingle with our worship then. — 

O God ! I hear them yet ! 

" Not one escaped. For those the flames, 

Less cruel, would have spared, 
Were driven back, with blow and ban, 

'Till all one ruin shared. 
The sire, the matron, and the babe, 

The maiden and the youth, 
Were offered up — by Christian men — 

An holocaust to Truth ! 



108 "god sebth." 

" Destruction's work had seemed complete, 

When lo ! a temple grand, 
That time and change had passed unscathed, 

We saw before us stand. 
And there the symbol of that faith 

Which, we had sworn, should be 
A thing forgotten in the land, 

Shone forth rebukingly. 

"The doors are battered in, and shrine 

And image are cast down ; 
And to the earth are holy book, 

And sacred vestment thrown ; — 
Upon the gifts the altars bear 

Men now like demons tread ; 
Nor spared the hand of violence 

The sanctuaries of the dead ! 

" We revelled there with holy things 

'Till even the fiercest tired ; 
And then resolved, with loud acclaim, 

The temple should be fired. 
'Twas done ; and fiendish shouts arose 

Our triumph to proclaim, 
As fretted dome and towering cross 

Sank in a sea of flame. 



" GOD SEETH." 109 

" But bravely still those stout old walls, 

That had so long defied 
The power of time and change, stood up 

Our malice to deride. 
At length they shake ; — they yield ; — and then 

Came thundering to the ground ! 
Not one huzza ! Whence came this change 1 

This silence so profound 1 

" The words of ribald blasphemy 

On mocking lips had died ; 
The unbelieving heart was awed, 

And blanched the cheek of pride ; 
And, only for the troubled light 

In every eye that shone, 
That daring band of lawless men 

Had figures seemed of stone. 

" Upon the blackened walls, above 

Where the grand altar stood ; — ■ 
That table where the hungry soul 

Had found celestial food ; — 
In characters of flame, that seared 

The sight, did on us glare 
These fearful words — ' God Sbeth ! ' — 'Twas 

His finger traced them there. 



110 " GOD SEETH." 

" I've striven since, through long, long years, 

To wash from heart and brain 
The memory of that dreadful night 

With penitential rain : 
But He who seeth pities too 

A contrite spirit's grief, 
And now has sent His angel Death 

To give me sure relief." 



HE CHILD AND THE ANGEL 



CoME^here to me, my little ones? 

And sit ye by my knee, 
While I a simple story tell 

Was lately told to me : — 
A tale of childish trust in God, 

'Mid want and misery. 

A little maid scarce six years old ? 

A feeble thing and fair, 
Was in the street one night, when not 

Another child was there ; 
And very few the garments were 

That little maid did wear. 

The night was dark and bitter cold. 

The snow lay on the ground ; 
And dismally^.the^hoarse north wind 

Was howling all around, 
As forth she held her hand for aid :— 

But none, alas ! she found. 



112 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. 

Yet up and down the street she went, 

Unwilling to depart, 
'Till froze the tears upon her cheek, 

That would unbidden start, 
And, from her hands and feet, the cold 

Crept in and chilled her heart. 

Then home she went. " Alas, the home 
That she, poor child, must find ! 

Where there is neither food nor warmth, 
Nor hope of welcome kind, 

For nought had she to bring to one 
Was suffering left behind. 

And she, who had been left alone 
When forth that little maid 

Had gone into the street to beg, 
In Heaven's sweet name, for aid, 

For weary months upon the couch 
Of sickness had been laid. 

And in that time went, piece by piece, 

Her furniture and clothes, 
'Till everything was gone. And then — 

The heaviest of her woes !- — 
That night upon the sufferer fell 

Which ne'er a morning knows. 



THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. IIS 

With biting want thus blindness came — 

O miseiy extreme ! — 
To make more desolate the home 

That did so wretched seem. 
Ah, there are woes, even at our doors, 

Of which we little dream ! 

But from that sightless widow's lips 

No murmur ever fell ; 
Nor e'er against God's chastisements 

Did she in thought rebel ; 
But humbly bowed and kissed the rod 

That smote, and said, '"Tis well." 

At length, when their last crumb was gone ? 

The little maiden prayed 
Her mother, that she might go forth 

Of strangers to ask aid. 
She went ; — and disappointment sore 

Upon her spirit weighed. 

And yet not for herself she grieved, 

Though hunger pinched her sore, 
But for her mother ; and she paused 

A moment at the door 
In doubt. But she had done her best, 

And no one can do more. 



114 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. 

So o'er the threshold of her home 

The maiden softly stept, 
For fear she should untimely wake 

The sufferer if she slept, 
At whose bedside an ill-fed lamp 

A feeble light still kept. 

And by that light she looked upon 
Her mother's face, and saw 

A something strange therein that filled 
Her little heart with awe ; 

For, though she nothing knew of death, 
She felt 'twas Death she saw ! 

" Oh, am I then alone !" she sobbed, 

" And must I ever be ! 
But no. My God's protecting love 

Shall bear me company ; 
And thou, sweet Virgin Mother ! wilt 

A mother be to me." 

Then kneeling down, she lifted up 
Her heart and voice in prayer, 

To Him who for the orphan hath 
A father's love and care ; 

And in her desolation fell 
Sweet peace upon her there. 



THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. 115 

And then her aching head she laid 

Upon her mother's breast : — 
Though cold, it was her mother's still ;— 

And there she sank to rest. 
When, in her dreams, an angel came, 

The sleeping child that Blest. 

And when she in the morning woke 

The angel still was there, 
But did, for robes of dazzling white, 

Coarse sable garments wear, 
And had concealed its radiant form 

An humbler one to bear. 

So thought the orphan, when she first 

Those pitying eyes and mild, 
That o'er her bent, beheld, and heard 

The tones, which had beguiled 
Grief of its bitterness in one 

Less hopeful than a child. 

And well she might. The holy love 

In Sister Mary's breast, 
That burned for all — yet brightest burned 

For creatures most distressed, — 
A beauty gave to her that few 

But angels have possessed. 



116 THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL. 

Then from that house of want and death 

The little maid she bore, 
And placed her where the tears of woe 

Shall gall her eyes no more, 
And where the long oppressed heart 

With gratitude runs o'er. 



THE WITCH 



The harvest moon, so round and bright, 
Looks calmly down on hill and plain, 

But sees not waving in her light 
Broad fields of golden grain. 

Nor has the husbandman, who cast 
His seed in hope into the ground, 

Reward for toils and trials past 
In crowded garners found. 

In sooth, there ne'er was harvest time 
Less like that jocund time, I trow, 

Of which so much is seen — in rhyme — 
Than this I sing of now. 

For though the Spring had promised fair, 
She quite forgot to keep her word ; 

And Summer — shabby 'twas of her — 
Was equally absurd. 



118 THE WITCH. 

And in the month of strawberries, 
The month of cherries and of roses, 

When every sight our eyes should please, 
And every smell our noses ; — 

The month to fill the heart's desire 
Of all who are of music fond, 

When every thicket is a choir — 
And so is every pond ; — 

To wear one's overcoat at noon, 
In double blankets sleep at night, 

With our ideas of " leafy June" 
Are not in keeping — quite. 

And though ice-creams some tastes may suit, 
And some folk fancy frosted cake, 

To ice our flowers, or frost our fruit, 
Is rather a mistake. 

And summer had, instead of suns, 

That should have ripened fruit and grain, 

Brought winds as merciless as duns, 
And cold December rain. 

And frost, the vital warmth that chilled 
In swelling bud and quickening germ, 



THE WITCH. 119 

And what escaped his touch was killed 
By the devouring worm. 

Then drought, a fiery dragon, came, 
And drank the waters of our rills, 

And withered, with his breath of flame, 
The grass upon our hills. 

And frost and drought together threw 

The folk into such consternation, 
That men in droves their cattle slew, 

To save them from starvation. 

And yet, though everything has failed, 
The harvest moon comes smiling here. 

But not with pleasure is she hailed, 
As she had been last year. 

But flashing eye and angry brow 

Now in her pure calm light are seen, 

And men are gathering for a row 
Upon the village green. 

'Tis something no less true than trite — 

I hope 'tis no offence I utter — 
That never men so bravely fight, 

As for their bread and butter. 



120 THE WITCH. 

And bread and butter both are like 
To fail our people in their need, 

So they resolve upon " a strike," 
At least revenge to feed. 

Revenge on what 1 The barren earth ! 

The handmaid she of God Supreme, 
Nor less obeys Him by this dearth 

Than did she richly teem, 

As she was wont in former years, 
With fruits to fill the barns of all. 

But no. The fault is none of hers. 
Nor there should vengeance fall. 

Yet, as they did most sagely reason, 
Since nature never such a prank 

Had played before, they for this season 
Had something else to thank. 

And who so. like, is urged by all, 
To be the instrument of ill 

As that strange being, whom they call 
The Witch op Breakneck Hill 1 

For is not she, as every child 

Can tell- you, what a witch should be 1 



THE WITCH. 



121 



A creature from her kind exiled 
By age and poverty ! 

How bent her form ;-— how sunk her cheek ;- 
How slow and tottering is her gait ! 

And oft to beings does she speak 
Unseen that on her wait. 

They ask not if by grief, or years, 
That once majestic form is bowed ; 

They do not ask if time, or tears, 
That cheek so deeply ploughed. 

Nor yet, if they she calls upon, 

In language strange and accents wild, 

Might not the tender names have known 
Of husband or of child. 

They see that she is old and poor — 
Decrepit — friendless • — yet, that she 

Has never sought a neighbour's door, 
For aid or sympathy. 

That no companionship she knows 
Among the idle crones around ; 

But that a cat aye with her goes, 
As black as can be found. 
G 



122 , THE WITCH. 

And some, who " revel late o' nights,*' 

Have seen, when honest dames were sleeping, 

Gleaming from out her hut, the lights 
Of one strange vigils keeping. 

But here a stronger proof is found, 
That all this ill's of her contriving : 

While blight has fallen on all around, 
Her garden patch is thriving ! 

And so the Solons of the place, 

Have in the witch's hovel sought her, 

And doomed her to — a common case — 
The ordeal of water. 

And stoutly — -spite of prayers and tears, 
Reproachful speech and loud denial, 

Her sex, infirmities, and years — 
Insist upon the trial. 

And rudely seizing the poor soul, 
With ribald shout, and jeer, and din, 

They drag her down to Buffett's Hole, 
And there they throw her in. 

" Now if she swim," an old man said, 
" She is a witch beyond a doubt ; — 



THE WITCH. 123 

But if she sink, be quick to aid ; — 
She's none, and must come out." 

Even while he speaks, the waters close 

Above the head of the devoted. 
Some bubbles to the surface rose ; — 

And that was all they noted. 

But aid was vain to save her then ; 

And thus, some hours before her time, 
She died, to teach these cruel men — 

Misfortune is not crime ! 



A WINTER EVENING TALE 



The storm is loud without. The frozen rain 

Comes in a shower of pebbles from the sky ; 

And, by the north wind that goes shrieking by, 
Is driven furiously against the pane. 

But for its clamour what care you are 1 1 
'Tis but the howlings of a mastiff chained — 
Noisy but harmless. Yet the heart is pained, 

Even when the head no danger can come nigh, 
To think upon the outcasts of our kind 
Who wanderers are ; — nor food nor shelter find. 

Nor food nor shelter ! Hard his fate indeed 
Who is condemned, upon a night like this, 
To seek in vain what rightfully is his ; 

For God his bounty has to each one's need 
Largely apportioned. But unwise it is 

To sigh o'er evils we cannot redress, 

But rather should we take" with thankfulness, 
The present good, nor pine at other's bliss. 



A WINTER EVENING ffALE. 125 

And so, all gloomy fancies to disperse, 
Will I a tale of truthful love rehearse. 

Love ! 'Tis a word of vast significance. 

A mighty ocean gathering, into one 

O'erwhelming flood, the myriad streams that run 
From sources hidden deep from mortal glance. 

The mountain torrent, glittering in the sun, 
And speeding on its way with headlong force, 
The river sweeping on its glorious course, 

And laggard stream that seeks the light to shun, 
Are merged in occean ; and all passions claim — 
The noble and the mean — Love's common name. 



Upon the margin of a glassy stream 

Once stood the dwelling of an honest pair. 
Their means were humble ; yet content they were, 
For thoughts of grandeur troubled not their dream. 

An only child they had— a daughter fair. 
Sweet floweret of the Hoosic ! what could vie 
With thy young loveliness 1 The father's eye 

Dwelt proudly on it ; but the mother's prayer 
Was to the Giver of all Good, that He 
Would shield it from the world's impurity. 

The days of childhood passed ; and this sweet child — 
But child in naught save innocence — might seem 
The incarnation of a poet's dream, 



12ii A WINTER EVENING TALE. 

Or denizen of some far region mild, 

That doth with flowers of Paradise still teem; 
So airy was her form — so bright each tress 

Of sunny silk — such truth and gentleness 

Spake in her cheek's warm blush and soft eye's beam. 

Blest were thy banks, O Hoosic ! to have given 

Birth to a flower so like the flowers of Heaven. 

Her sixteenth summer scarce was numbered, ere 
She saw the proudest of the village youth 
Sigh in her train, and proffer love and truth, 

With which alone her beauty could compare. 
But, though her little heart was filled with ruth, 

For even the meanest thing, her Maker, good 

And wise, with life and feeling had endued, 
For such she little pity showed in sooth ; 

But laughed at their sad tales and looks forlorn ; 

Yet more, I ween, in merriment than scorn. 

But all alike not lightly did she pass. 

With one she'd gathered childhood's blossoms gay, 

And, though that season now was passed away, 
Still dear unto her gentle heart he was. 

And oft at even would she with him stray, 
When twilight gave its softness to the scene, 
Or summer moon, with all her dazzling sheen, 

Lent night a loveliness unknown to day, 



A WINTER EVENING TALE. 127 

And listen to his vows with burning cheek, 
But a deep joy no words have power to speak. 

One sober eve, as they had oft before, 

Along the Hoosie's pebbled marge they strayed, 
While wind and leaf above in dalliance played, 
And, mellowed by the distance, came the roar 

Of rushing waters. Here most warmly prayed 
The youth, with eloquence that well might move 
To passion even a heart that knew not love, 

The bliss he sought should be no more delayed. 
What could she more, than bid him be content, 
Her parents seek, nor doubt of their consent ? 

There is no language that like silence speaks 

The heart's conviction of its happiness. 

The river that hath depth beyond our guess, 
Unlike the shallow brook, the ocean seeks 

And never babbles of its joy's excess. 
And on the lovers went without a word, 
While in his hand her's fluttered like a bird 

That struggles for release from strange caress, 
Until within the shadow of a wood 
Of gloomy, tall primeval pines they stood. 

When from the forest .rushed a. fearful band 
Of savage foes, whose shouts the welkin rend. 



128 A WINTER EVENING TALE. 

Right manfully the maiden to defend 
Young Frederick turned ; though with unweaponed hand. 

" Thou might'st as well, presumptuous boy ! pretend," 
The stalwart chief in bitter scorn did say, 
" To grapple with the bear, of from his prey 

Unsatisfied the hungry panther send, 
As from the Swooping Eagle wrest the dove." 
Hurled him to earth, and bore away his love. 

Dark was their path and wild ; nathless they kept 

In line unvarying as the laden bee, 

When home returning to his hollow tree ; 
And still the maiden lay as if she slept 

The dreamless sleep. Yet bore they tenderly 
The lifeless form, 'till came they where a brook 
Stole through the trees, when of its waters took 

The chief, and bathed her pallid cheek, till she 
Woke to a sense of her sad plight ; and then 
On in their silent march they moved again. 

But till the morning broke the maiden knew 

Not half the ills that compassed her around. 

And then, oh agony ! herself she found 
The hopeless captive of a lawless crew. 

Her head was pillowed on the stony ground. 
But harder were the hearts of those whose eyes 
Now seemed to gloat upon her agonies, 

And to whose ears her sighs became a sound 



A WINTER EVENING TALE. 129 

Of merriment. - Among them not a face 
That on her bent of pity bore a trace. 

Then from her eyes the tears in torrents fell, 
Until the chieftain thus addressed the maid : 
" Behold in me the patient fool that prayed 
To thee for pity. Ay, gaze on me well ! 

Thou scorn'dst the heart that at thy feet was laid ; 
Didst drive the angel out that dwelt therein, 
And filled the place of love with hate and sin ! 

Dost thou not know me yet from what I've said ? 
Behold !" he threw his Indian garb aside, 
" My cousin Adrian !" she shuddering cried. 

<'• Thy cousin Adrian ! The blood that fills 

Thy veins and mine from the same fountain came — 
One grands! re ours. But what in thee is tame, 

Through my impassioned heart tumultuous thrills. 
But I to thee would give a tenderer name 

Than aught that blood or kindred can bestow. 

My love ! my bride ! Shrink not • it must be so. 
Thy minion lives not to dispute my claim ; 

And ere yon sun shall hide him in the west, 

The dove shall shelter in the eagle's nest, 

" Besume thy Indian garb," the maid replied 
In tone of biting scorn ; " it suits thee well. 
And raise the song of death — the savage veil ; 
(V* 



130 A WINTER EVENING TALE. 

For ne'er shalt thou, vain boaster, call me bride. 

And here I scorn thee and thy vengeance fell. 
What though my fate be hid from mortal eye % 
There now is looking on us from the sky 

One who can give these rocks a tongue to tell 
That here the blood of innocence was shed, 
And call down vengeance on the murderer's head !" 

" Hold !" he in fury cried — " I'll hear no more !" 

" Hold !" echoed was in tones that froze his blood. 

And lo ! a threatening form before him stood, 
Whose brow was stained — whose locks were stiff with gore. 

Awhile the trembling wretch he sternly viewed, 
Then said, " Wait not the justice due thy crime}; 
And thank thy God, while Mercy gives thee time, 

Thy hands arc not with kindred blood imbrued. 
Away ! and with the banned of nature dwell, — 
Than thou no savage e'er more false or fell !" 

'Twas Frederick spake ; and soon he was obe} r ed. 

The baffled traitor from his presence flew, 

As flies the deer when eager hounds pursue. 
And then the lover knelt him by the maid, 

Whose icy cheek he did with tears bedew ; 
And with the'tenderest words heart could device, 
Implored her ope once more those lovely eyes, 

Whose light withdrawn, the world in shadow threw. 



A WINTER EVENING TALE. 131 

Scarce to the dead had he so prayed in vain ; — 
And Isabel smiles in his arms again ! 



So ends my tale. Imagination now 

Must paint the raptures of her parents, when 
They folded to their hearts their child again, 
And bathed with tears of joy her angel brow. 

And to imagination, not the pen, 
The task belongs, the transports to portray 
That fired the youth, when thus the sire did say, 

As he their hands united — " Best of men ! 
To thee this treasure of our age we owe, 
And to requite the debt, do it on thee bestow !" 



TORY HOLLOW. 



" In the name of sweet Heaven, your aid I implore. 
I am weary and faint ! 1 shall die at your door. 
No food have I tasted ; my lips have not wet 
Since gray of the dawn, and the sun is long set : 
But still, like the wolf from the hunters, have fled, 
With foes on my track and a price on my head ; 
'Till wounded and fainting the flight I give o'er. 
Then ope to me quick — or I die at your door ! " 

These words, though in accents that scarce would have 

broke 
The light cradled sleep -of an infant, awoke 
From slumber a maiden, whose father was then, 
With three gallant sons, and a band of brave men — 
Their ploughs in the furrows still standing — gone forth. 
The foeman to drive from the land of his birth ; 
And mother lay sleeping beneath the green sod, 
While she had no friend — no protector but God. 



TORY HOLLOW. 133 

But ne'er from distress had she yet turned her ear, 

And the blood of her race was a stranger to fear. 

So, rising in haste, she the door did unbar, 

And said, " Enter freely, who ever you are. 

Save shelter and food, I have nothing to give, 

And these would refuse not to any that live. 

For ever to all that assistance require 

Has welcome been found 'neath the roof of my sire." 

Then feebly he entered ; when she, with a start, — 
While rushed like an icebolt the blood to her heart, — 
Beheld the dear youth who, ere peace fled the land, 
The promise had won of the maiden's fair hand, 
But who, in respect for a time-honoured name, 
Th' allegiance forgot that his country should claim, 
And drew, in defence of the rights of a throne, 
The sword that belonged to his country alone. 

And faithfully since, though, thank Heaven ! in vain 

The cause he espoused had he fought to maintain, 

Till now, that he had by the chief at Old Ti', 

On a mission been sent wit and courage would try. 

When, meeting an outlying party of those 

He once loved as friends, but now dreaded as foes, 

For well had he earned — and he knew it — their wrath, 

In his wish to avoid them, he turned from his path. 



134 TOKY HOLLOW. 

And, being well mounted, he thought to outstrip 
His foes now in chase, and he spared not the whip, 
And spared not the spur, till the steed he bestrode, 
As it strove to obey him, fell dead in the road. 
They are close on his track ! when the road he forsook- 
Now piercing a forest — now fording a brook — 
Till the flight, long sustained, he is fain to give o'er ; 
And comes now for shelter and aid to her door. 

She'd loved him ; ay, fondly and trustingly loved 
As none love but once ; yet the moment he proved 
Untrue to the cause of her dear native land 
She deemed him her foe, and denied him her hand ; 
And would, had he come with a conqueror's pride, 
And the train of a monarch, to make her his bride, 
Have bid him the love, freely plighted, ne'er claim 
Till the stain of dishonour was washed from his name. 

But humbly thus suing for food and for rest, 

The sweet angel Pity awoke in her breast ; 

And bidding him welcome, she placed on the board 

The few simple viands her cot did afford : 

The spring gushing forth from the hillside then sought, 

And water that seemed molten diamonds brought, 

To bathe his torn feet, ere his limbs he should fling 

On a pallet less hard than the couch of a king. 



TORY HOLLOW. 135 

And there, all forgetful of danger, he slept ; 
While watch through the night at her casement she kept, 
For little, she knew, had the Tory to hope, 
From those on his trail, but the ball or the rope. 
Yet even the tory, whose impious hand 
Against her who bore him — his own native land- 
Was ruthlessly turned, if unable to fly, 
She'd shield from all danger — or with him would die. 

With a basket of food then she did her provide, 
And this on her arm, she drew close to his side, 
And whispered, " Awake ! there's no time to delay, 
For morning approaches, and you must away. 
Then up ! and my footsteps in silence attend, 
For still can I serve, though I am not your friend, 
And safe will conduct you where you can remain 
'Till the hunt that's now up is given over in vain." 

They thridded a forest, which seldom before 
Had been trodden, except by the redman of yore, 
'Till they came to a brooklet, that noiselessly crept 
Through low stunted cedars ; and close to it kept ; 
When it led them adown through a darksome ravine, 
Where it still could be traced, though it could not be seen, 
By its low drowsy hum, till it flashed in the sun, 
Whose course for the day was in glory begun. 



186 Tor - ? hollow. 

And then from the brooklet they turned to the right, 
Where a clump of tail pines, in whose centre sat Night, 
Looked down on a valley scooped out from the hills, 
That singing of birds now with melody fills ; 
While the Hudson, that since hath borne treasures untold 
On his bosom, afar through that valley then rolled 
In silence and darkness, his course dimly shown 
By mists hanging over the fcreetops alone. 

" Within," said the maid, " is a cavern, the lair, 

In winters long past, of the wolf or the bear, 

Th' existence of which, if it ever was known, 

Is forgot, save by me and my brothers alone ; 

And there may you safely from danger abide, 

Till the storm you've so rashly provoked shall subside, 

If my coming you wait :" and, without an adieu, 

She turned, and was instanly lost to his view. 

Four wearisome days, and four nights of unrest 

Passed tediously by ere again he was blest 

With a sight 6f that form -which, in peril and gloom, 

Had come, like the sun, his dark path to illume; 

Yet knew, though unseen, that she still hovered near, 

For aye as the morn on the hills did appear, 

When buoyant with hope, he upsprang from the ground, 

His basket with food now replenished he found. 



TORY HOLLOAV. 137 

But on the fifth morn, ere the stars had grown dim, 
Or wakened the woodlands their earliest hymn, 
From a dream of the past, he was roused by a voice, 
That oft made his heart in his boyhood rejoice, 
Now whispering his name, as it bade him come forth ; 
When sudden he sprang to his feet from the earth, 
And saw with delight 'mid the pines' deepest shade — 
As she stood reigning in a proud courser — the maid. 

" Quick ! mount and aw;iy ! there's no time to be lost ! 
Ere rise of the sun must the Hudson be crossed. 
Their home unexpected my brotl ers have sought, 
And to you their coming with clanger is fraught : 
But they sleep ; and, before they awake to the light, 
I have hastened to bid you seek safety in flight, 
For I would not the blood of my country's worst foe 
By hands of my kin, save in battle, should flow. 

"Yet grant me one word." " Nay, not one," she replied. 
Behold how the steed does this tardiness chicle ; — 
Now champing the bit, and now pawing the ground ; — - 
Away then ! while safety in flight may be found. 
And, hark ! there is snapping of boughs in the wood. 
They come, O they come ! who're athirst for your blood ! 
Then fly ! if the heart you have desolate made 
For aye you would crush not, I must be obeyed ! " 



138 TORT HOLLOW. 

He sprang to the back of the courser, that flew 
Away like the wind, while the brothers pursue — 
Their sister who've tracked to the cave — and they come 
With well loaded rifles, the heralds of doom. 
And closely they follow adown the deep glen — 
It has ever been called " Tory Hollow " since then, — 
Till the fugitive stands on the bank of a stream 
That still is untouched by the morn's purple beam. 

He pauses in doubt. Shall he venture the leap 1 
Below rolls the river broad, sullen, and deep ! 
But now, as a moment he turns to look back, 
He sees the pursuers are close on his track : — 
The spur and the rein to the steed he then gave, 
And the horse and the horseman leapt into the wave, 
While the bullets, in wrath that were sent for his blood, 
Flew harmlessly o'er him, and sank in the flood. 

He 'scaped : and when peace was restored to the land, 
Came suitor once more for the long promised hand. 
But to his entreaties she listened unmoved, 
Even while she denied not he had been beloved. 
But the heart that distrust has unhappily chilled, 
By affection undoubting no mure can be filled ; 
And scarce could the man who forgot what was due 
To his country, she thought, to a woman prove true. 



THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC 



The winds are abroad ; and they come in their might 

O'er the hills, where the pines bend them low in affright ; 

They shriek through the forests, and rush through the vales 

With a shout that the cheek of the hardiest pales. 

The mariner starts, as the sweep of their wings 

O'er his bark, wildly reeling, the blinding spray flings ; 

And their screams the hoarse prayer of the struggling 

wretch drown, 
As the billows roll o'er where his vessel went down. 

In the lull of the wind, in the pause of the wave, 
Comes a sound that with dread fills the hearts of the brave. 
Now it rings an alarum ; — now mournfully knolls ; 
'Tis begging for succour for perishing souls. 
And its summons is answered, with ready good will, 
From farmhouse and hamlet, from plain and from hill, 
But in vain do they strive with the surge and the gale ; — 
The decree has e;one forth, and no aid can avail ! 



140 THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC. 

The winds have been gathered again to their caves, 
And hushed into silence the roar of the waves. 
Yet, to and fro swinging, unceasing the bell 
Of the Vessel of Doom tolleth forth its sad knell. 
'Tis thought that by hands of good angels 'tis rung, 
A message of love to convey by its tongue : — 
The living to warn that the deep will betray, 
And for souls of the dead asking Christians to pray. 



A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY 



Here Nature holds her sabbath. Here 

Reigns gentle Peace, as when at first 
God rested from his labour, ere 

The earth for sin of man was cursed. 

And all things own her influence. 

For not alone the moil and strife 
That vex the heart are banished hence, 

But the tumultuous joys of life. 

And O ! how sweet it is to steal 
To scenes where worldlings never stray, 

And in God's holy temple kneel, 
And at His shrines our offerings lay. 

For though no gorgeous fane is nigh, 
Nor altar raised by mortal hand, 

His temple is yon glorious sky ; — 
Th' eternal hills His altars stand 



142 



A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. 



And sweet our ardent sighs to blend 
With incense from the breathing sod, 

And with the forest monarchs bend 
In reverence to the power of God. 

To join with bough, and brook, and bird 
In hymn;; of gladness and of praise 

To Him who, by His sovereign word, 
Called forth whate'er His eye surveys. 

But, to the heart that long hath bled 

From wounds our cherished sins have given, 
O sweeter far it is to shed 

The tear unseen by all but Heaven ! 



HYMN TO AMERICA. 



America ! the bosom thrills 

With rapture at the thought of thee, 

Upon whose everlasting hills 
In light is written — Liberty ! 

Whose glory all the earth has filled ; 

Whose spirit, breathed through every land, 
A flame in hearts oppressed and chilled 

Has kindled, nothing shall withstand. 

And at whose voice have souls designed 
For freedom from their slumber woke, 

And chains, more galling to the mind 
Than to the fettered limbs, have broke. 

And who a temple, that with Time 
Shall last, has reared upon thy shore, 



144 HYMN TO AMERICA. 

Where all, of every creed and clime, 
In love may meet — in peace adore. 

And while pale despots curse thy name, 
From whom the worm on which they trod 

Has learned a brother's rights to claim, 
The serf looks up and blesses God I 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



The queenly Night on Horeb sat : 
And, from the canopy "which hung 

In darkness o'er her, shadows deep 
O'er all Judea's plains were flung. 

But from a jewel rare, that shone 

Amid her starry diadem, 
A ray of Heaven's own radiance stole, 

And fell on lowly Bethlehem. 

And then the silence, which had lain 
Like heavy slumber on the land, 

Was broken by a burst of joy — 
The hymnings of a glorious band ! 

And harps were struck, and voices raised 
By those who hailed Creation's birth : — 

" All glory be to God on high ! 

And peace," they sang, " to men on earth !' 
7 



THE CEOSS AND BEADS 



" Take, soldier, all thou dost behold ; 

Here nought is worth our strife ; — 
For silver have I not, nor gold ; — 

And, if thou wilt, my life. 
I'm very old — five-score* and odd — 

With none to mourn my loss, 
For wife and children are with God. 

But spare my Beads and Cross. 

" These beads I've daily counted o'er 

E'er since I was a boy — 
In trials succour to implore, 

And thanks return in joy — 
To Her who feels for all that grieve,. 

And for the sinner pleads : 
And she has been my friend : then leave 

The poor old man his Beads. 



THE CROSS AND BEADS. 147 

" And when to earth by sorrow weighed 

For all beloved — gone ! 
I knelt before the Cross and prayed 

To Him who died thereon ; 
How light to what He suffered there 

Was grief for earthly loss ; 
And I have risen strong to bear. 

Then spare the old man's Cross." 

" Nay, father, for thine humble home 

Fear not. We tread this soil 
As foes, 'tis true : but do not come 

The helpless to despoil. 
We soldiers are — not robbers ; and 

We do not war with creeds. 
For gallant hearts are in our band 

That love the Cross and Beads." 



A TALE OP THE IEISH FAMINE 



A woman in the throes of death 

Lies on her cabin floor. 
A wife and mother yesterday — 

But such, alas ! no niore. 
Her husband, yet in manhood's prifne- 

Her children, young and fair — 
Before her eyes have perished all ! 

And she alone is there. 

No, not alone. The priest of God 

Is kneeling at her side. 
One blessing still is hers, even though 

All others are denied. 
The hand that on her infant brow 

The cleansing waters poured, 
Now offers to her dying lips 

The Body of her Lord. 



A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. 149 

" Father," she says, with feeble breath, 

" God will reward the care 
With which you've watched o'er me and mine 

Through hours of black despair. 
Yet one more favour would I beg, 

To her beyond the sea, 
When I am laid beneath the mould, 

A blessing send from me. 

" And tell her, father, we are dead, 

But say not how we died. 
Why should her gentle heart be wrung 

To know how ours were tried ? 
Why should she know the bitter pangs 

Her parents' hearts that tore, 
When vain they knew their toil to keep 

Starvation from the door % 

" Then tell her not, how, day by day, 

Her father's strength did fail ; 
Nor how her darling sister's cheek 

Hollow became and pale. 
Though I beheld her father yield 

Himself to hopeless woe ; 
Her sister die in lingering pain ; 

All this she need not know. 



150 A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. 

" Nor how her little brother looked 

Into my face, and cried 
For food — which I had not to give — 

Till in my arms he died. 
No, father, no ; — for Heaven's sweet sake, 

Send not across the sea, 
That all she loved have perished thus, 

Or she will frenzied be ! 

" But say we did her not the wrong 

To think we were forgot, 
Even though the aid we might have hoped 

From her did reach us not ; 
Then tell her, father, in the scroll 

My dying words that bears, 
She still can help us — if she will 

But name us in her prayers." 

She ceases as a haggard form 

Glides through the cabin door, 
And to the holy man extends 

The letter that he bore. 
It brings from a far land, though long 

By adverse winds delayed, 
The earnings of a pious child 

Her parents dear to aid. 



A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. 151 

The glazing eyes a moment ope, 

But soon are closed again ; 
And sadly to herself she says, 

" For us it comes in vain ! 
But strengthen, God ! the hand that gives 

Thus freely of its store ; 
And on the kind and loving heart 

Thy richest blessings pour !" 



THE STAR OF THE SEA 



Voyager of Life's dark ocean, 

When that clouds the heavens deform, 
And thy hark is on the billows 

Tost — the plaything of the storm ! 

Listen, and, amid the wailings 
Of the tempest, thou shalt hear 

Faith, with hopeful voice, that whispers, 
" Look aloft ! and do not fear. 

"Through the murk a light is breaking. 

Calmly, purely, from afar. 
One bright star is shining on thee. 

Christian, Mary is that Star !" 



CANZONET 



The love the poet sings 

Is ideal, 
Or soon it taketh wings : 

But the real, 
A glow o'er earthly things 
Of heaven's own radiance flings • 

And to the love that's real 
Do angels touch their strings : 

Not to the ideal. 

Then give thy heart to love ; — 

Freely give it ; 
And angels will approve. 

Wholly give it, 
If the dear God above — 
The true and only Love — 

Thou wouldest should receive it 
And him that gives approve, 

Freely, wholly give it. 






"LOVEST THOU ME?" 



As erst unto Peter, so now unto thee, 
Thus sayeth the Saviour, " Lovest thou me ?" 
And thou, e'en like him who his Lord had denied, 
" Thou knowest I love Thee," hast promptly replied. 

Thou knowest I love Thee ! Hast weighed this reply \ 

Or darest to Truth boldly utter a lie 1 

For if thou dost scorn in the outcast to see 

A brother, O say not, " Thou know'st I love Thee." 

To raise the down-trodden ; to succour the poor ; 
The woful to comfort ; the sufF'ring to cure, 
The merciful Jesu came down from above, 
And, Him if thou lovest, these too must thou love. 

And turn thine eye inward, and jealously scan 

If aught there is hidden from man against man. 

Should hate in thy heart for thine enemy be, 

Thou mockest in saying, " Thou know'st I love Thee." 



THE CBUCIFIXION. 



Come with me to the Cross, and see 
Thy Saviour in his agony, 
And own, O man ! how deep thy guilt must be. 

Th' Eternal Son, to whom was given 
The sovereignty of earth and heaven, 
Is from the presence of His Father driven ! 

In mortal form His godhead veiled, 
And by blaspheming tongues assailed, 
And Jo the tree a malefactor nailed ! 

And lo ! from hands, an d feet, and side, 
Is poured the deep empurpled tide, 
Till Justice stern relents — is satisfied. 



156 



THE CRUCIFIXION. 



Who tore Him from His throne on high ? 
And clothed Him with infirmity 1 
And unto want condemned, and obloquy 1 

Who pressed the thorns upon His brow ? 
And ah ! who did with anguish bow 
The soul of Yearning Love 1 man, 'twas thou ! 



Then lowly kneel the Cross before, 
And at the feet of Mercy pour 
The tribute of thy tears, and Saving Love adore ! 



PEACE, BE STILL, 



Winds and waves, in wild commotion, 
Doubting hearts with terrors fill, 

Till the Lord of earth and ocean 
Rising utters — -Peace, be still ! 

Then to caves, where lately hidden, 
The unmurmuring winds retreat, 

And the waves, like vassals chidden, 
Bow them at their Master's feet. 

Ever thus, when passion rages, 
And when doubts my bosom fill, 

May the voice that grief assuages 
Kindly whisper — Peace, be still ! 



EEST IN THE CHURCH 



The dove that from the Ark was sent, 

When, after long and painful quest, 
She failed to find, where'er she went, 

A spot whereon her foot to rest, — 
For over all one shoreless main 

Its cold, dark waves incessant rolled, — 
Returned to that blest home again, 

La peace her weary wings to fold. 

And I, that long on feeble wing 

Have wandered o'er a troubled sea, 
Where doubt its cheerless shadows fling, 

Without one star my guide to be, 
All vain pursuit have now given o'er ; 

And home returning, like the dove, 
Within the sacred ark once more 

Have safety found, and peace and love. 



THE EMPBEOE AND THE NUN 



The gates of Eorae are open thrown, 

And through them rolls a tide 
Of warlike forms, that yet have known 

Than this no manlier pride ; — 
To crowd the servile ranks of one 

Whose smile is to the slave 
Than Heaven more dear, but in whose frown 

His doom is writ — the grave ! 

And, borne upon that glittering tide, 

A monarch enters in 
Where martial pomp and kingly pride 

No acclamations win.; 
For Rome, while thus her sacred streets 

By Northern hordes are trod, 
With sad and shuddering silence greets 

The Second Scourge of God ! 



100 THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. 

A feeble woman, worn with toil, 

And bowed, but not with years ; — 
A plant torn rudely from the soil 

Now wet with Freedom's tears, — 
A waif upon life's desert strand, — 

A bubble mid the foam 
Of ocean ; — doth unnoticed stand 

Within the walls of Rome. 

Her tattered garb and bleeding feet 

Her wretchedness declare, 
Although a smile serene and sweet 

Her thin, pale lips still wear. 
The love and trust that nerved her heart 

To brave a tyrant's might, 
Still to her downcast eyes impart 

A calm and holy light. 

The ruthless Despot of the North, 

Whose banners are unfurled 
O'er myriads trampled to the earth — 

The serfs of either world ! — 
Whose ravening eagles fiercely fly 

O'er bz'oad and distant lands, 
As equal with an equal, by 

Rome's Priestly Sovereign stands. 



THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. 161 

But low at God's Vicegerent's feet 

The wayworn pilgrim kneels, 
A Father's blessing to entreat. 

And down her cheek though steals 
A tear, through channels worn by pain, 

'Tis not from grief it springs, 
But joy, that she — poor dove ! — again 

In peace may fold her wings. 

With brow severe, that scarce hath need 

Of speech's feeble aids, 
On him who would his eagles feed 

With flesh of cloistered maids, 
One look the aged Pontiff cast 

Ere fell his stern rebuke, 
And like the pine in Norland blast 

The crowned caitiff shook. 

Few were the words God's holy priest 

To that proud monarch said ; 
But burning deep within his breast 

They fell like molten lead ; 
And trembling from the face of him 

In Jesu's place who stood, 
With reeling brain and vision dim, 

Went forth the Man of Blood, 



162 THE EMPEEOR AND THE NUN. 

Then bending o'er the kneeling maid, 

He said, in accents mild, 
As on her head his hand he laid, 

Be comforted, my child. 
The earth drank not thy tears ; but they 

Went up to Heaven, and claim 
The blessing I pronounce to-day 

Upon thee in God's name." 



PAEAPHEASE OF THE LOED'S PEAYEE. 



Father, who in Heaven dost dwell, 
Throned in light ineffable, 
Yet regard'st the weak and lowly, 
Be Thy name forever holy. 

Thou, who from eternity 
Wast, and evermore shalt be, 
Come, from things of time to win us, 
O'er us reign and reign within us. 

But, whate'er Thou givesfc, still 
May we learn to know Thy will, 
That, in this our mortal state, 
We Thy saints may emulate. 

Of Thy bounty give us, Lord, 
What will needful strength afford, 



164 PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER. 

And with heavenly, — living bread 
Let our souls be daily fed. 

What Thy holy eyes shall see 
In us that displeases Thee, 
Pardon, as we pardon those, 
To our hurt have been our foes. 

While temptations round us throng, 
Luring still from right to wrong, 
Aid us, when we cannot fight, 
That we safety find in flight. 

And, as Satan's snares are spread 
In our path where'er we tread, 
Do Thou, who our strait dost see, 
Timely our Deliverer be. 



"NOT DEAD — BUT SLEEPETH." 

ADDRESSED TO THE OPPRESSORS OF IRELAND. 



Cohorts of a Godless Power, 

That with Eight have battled long, 
Do not yet — though your's the hour — - 

Raise your proud, triumphant song. 
Do not, ere the fight be won, 

Rouse the blood that feebly creepeth 
Through the hearts ye trampled on : — 

Freedom " is not dead — but sleepeth !" 

Tyrants, no ! she is not dead ! 

Though ye have so madly striven 
Out the sacred spark to tread — 

Life of Life — that God hath given ; 
For alive the breath of Him, 

Who that spark first kindled, keepeth, 
Yet to blaze, though now 'tis dim : — 

Freedom " is not dead—but sleepeth !" 



166 " NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH." 

Ye have mocked at her distress ; — 

Ye in chains her limbs have bound ; 
And, in bitter wantonness, 

Cast her helpless to the ground. 
Know ye not, who sows the wind 

He the whirlwind surely reapeth? 
And — nor late — ye yet shall find, 

Freedom " is not dead — but sleepeth !'' 

On her night of woe at length 

Must a glorious morning break, 
When, with renovated strength, 

She from slumber shall awake. 
Tremble, then ! for ye shall know, 

When tornado-like she sweepeth 
In hot vengeance on the foe, 

Freedom is nor dead nor sleepeth ! 



ST. P ATEICK'S DAY 



Though tears, from the hearts that with grief are o'er- 
flowing, 

Embitter the cup on this morning we brim, 
Yet, Erin, for thee in our bosoms is glowing 

A flame that nor time nor affliction can dim. 
Though death fill the breeze that floats over thy moun- 
tains, 

And pestilence desolate valleys and plains, 
And poisons gush forth from thy once holy fountains, 

Undying the love of thy children remains. 

And such too the faith — though it might not be spoken- 
Still nursed in the souls of the wronged and betrayed, 

Whose trust in the justice of God is unbroken ;— 
A justice most sure, though it long be delayed. 

O then, though in chains, and thy heart wrung with sor- 
row, 
And all who would aid thee are scattered or crushed, 

Aid thou from the past for the future canst borrow 
No hope, let the sob of thine anguish be hushed, 



168 st. Patrick's day. 

The blood of thy martyrs — ascended to heaven — 

Shall clamour for vengeance not always in vain ; 
And cometh the time when thy foes shall be driven 

For aye from the soil they have dared to profane. 
O then from the earth, where thou liest forsaken, 

Dear Erin ! look up, for the night is far gone ; 
The Day of thy Freedom thou soon shalt see breaking, 

And the prayer of our hearts is, May God speed it on ! 



EPITAPH 



A gentle soul, the joy that made 

Of loving hearts, from earth is gone ; 
And sorrow now and darkness fill 

The home its light was shed upon. 
But 'tis not lost. An angel hence 

The priceless gem to heaven has "borne, 
To shine for aye among the stars 

That form the crown by Jesus worn. 



SONNET. 

TO CORNELIUS AV. LAWRENCE. 



It is not hard to rise above the crowd, 

Or many, who now fill the public eye. 

Had still crawled on in that obscurity 

Which nature meant their worthlessness to shroud. 

Yet they, to whom the world has one day bowed, 

The next have passed away to nameless graves, 

And underfoot been trod by fools and knaves, 

And truckling parasites and brawlers loud. 

But he who would a lasting hold obtain 

On men's regard, must of- a spirit be 

That could not stoop even honest ends to gain, 

Yet power bear meekly and prosperity. 

And whose pure name detraction could not stain. 

One such I'm proud to know ; — and Tnou art He. 



TO GEOKGE DAVIS, 

ON HIS NOBLE VINDICATION OF OUR COUNTRY FROM THE CHARGE OF HOS- 
TILITY TO FOREIGNERS, WHICH A REVEREND DECLAIMER AT A NEW ENG- 
LAND DINNER HAD, IN HIS BIGOTED ZEAL FOR PURITANISM, ENDEAVOURED 
TO FASTEN UPON HER. 



I — in the name of my dead father, who — 

When, by unholy laws, it had become 
A crime to love the land where first he knew 
The sweets of home-affection, and to roam 
Was driven by the fell oppressor's scourge — 
Launched his frail bark upon the billowy surge, 
And sought and found a home among the free,r— 
In the proud clime that boasts a son in thee; — 

Do thank thee for the noble stand which thou 

Didst take, when Bigotry, that fiend accurst ! 
Cloaked in the garb of holiness, but now 

Upon the social hour in fury burst. 
For thou alone, while loud and fierce he bawled, 
Stood'st in his blasting presence unappalled-, 
And proved'st how foully he the land belied 
For which Pulaski and Montgomery died ! 



WHEN I WAS IN MY BOYHOOD 



When I was in my boyhood — ■ 
'Tis many a year ago ! — 

A simple village maiden 
Set my bosom in a glow. 

Ah me ! my heart is old ! 

Ah me ! my heart is cold ! 

But of the fire there kindled then 

Some sparks the ashes hold. 

The brightness of the morning 
Was sadder than her smile ; 
The rose had not her beauty, 

And the yeanling had less guile. 
Ah me I could woman be 
What Ella was to me, 
No other paradise than earth 
Would mortal wish to see. 



WHEN I WAS IN MY BOYHOOD. 173 

But long the spell's been broken 

That did my heart enchain ! 
The goddess of my worship 

Was a creature weak and vain. 
Ah me ! the precious ore * 

Of wisdom's boasted lore 
I would resign to be again 
The dreaming boy of yore ! 



APOLOGUE 



A pine, that stood forever in the sun, 

Looked down, and wagged his graceful head in scorr 

Of a poor shrub, had been content to dwell 

In the deep vale in which he had been born. 

" Ha ! ha ! " then laughed aloud the haughty pine, 

" Compared to this exalted state of mine, 

Poor grovelling thing ! how mean a lot is thine ! " 

But soon the tempest, in his car of night, 

Came rushing by ; and, as he passed, did fling 

At that proud tree an angry bolt, which left 

The boaster on his height a blasted thing. 

And yet his taunt the shrub retorted not 

Against the pine ; but blessed the Power that sought 

To give him safety in an humble lot. 



SOPHIA 



You ask for a verse, and I think I will try 

To hammer one out, though no poet am I; 

And my theme — let me see ! — -What a ninny am I ! ah, 

What theme should I have, hut the charms of Sophia % 

But don't think I'll flatter ; for if you should chance 
A mirror to pass, you can tell at a glance, 
Though figure and face none can fail to admire, 
That others may match you in beauty, Sophia. 

But your lips, should they not with the ruby compare, 
Have that in their smile, which no ruby can wear ; 
And your eyes, if not just what the stars in the sky are, 
Beam gladness on all who behold them, Sophia. 

Your voice may not be like the nightingale's strains,— * 
I know not such bird ever sang on our plains- — 



176 . SOPHIA. 

But this I do know ; — in our own woodland choir, 
There's nothing more kind than the voice of Sophia. 

And though your teeth scarce would be taken for pearl, 
Or your hair for the thread of the silkworm, my girl ; 
Than silk, or than pearl, you've a treasure far higher — 
A gentle, a loving and true heart, Sophia. 



INTRODUCTION 

TO " THE TWO SPIRITS." 



When some who now are bowed and old, 

And some who in their graves are cold ! 

Were boys, whose stout young hearts beat high 

With hope — and of their number I — 

Upon a hill, from which a man, 

Without much effort, could have thrown 

Into the noble stream, that ran 

Close at its base, a good sized stone, 

There stood a house which once had been — 

'Twas long before my time, I ween — 

As some averred, a stately dwelling, 

By far all neighbouring ones excelling. 

But now it had a weird look ; 

And, in its dress of faded white, 

Might easily have been mistook 

For some old mansion's ghost at night ; 

And though we laughed, and wagged our heads^ 



178 INTRODUCTION 

And shouted as we passed it by 

When heaven and earth were bright, and shone 

The sun in glory in the sky, 

Of all our band there was not one 

Would pass it when the day was done. 

The chimneys, that no use had known 

For many a day, to earth were thrown ; 

The broken roof let in the rain ; 

The windows were without a pane ; 

The doors, so long had open stood, 

You could not shut them if you would ; 

And in the parlours, in the hall, 

And in the goodly chambers all, 

Were piles of withered leaves, that lay 

On heaps of dust there raised by slow decay. 

Around this mansion once had lain 

A rich and beautiful domain, 

Which one, who of an after race 

Bethought, had thickly planted o'er 

With trees and shrubs, that fruit or flower 

Each in its proper season bore. 

And these to guard from wanton boys, 

The idle and the ill-disposed, 

That suburbs aye infest, within 

A good stone wall enclosed. 

But soon, in our unstable clime, 

Neglect will do the work of Time- 



TO THE '■' TWO SPIRITS." 179 

That wall so strong was now o'erthrown, 
And not a stone left on a stone ; 
And though the trees — grown wild — that still 
Bemained, put forth their leaves in spring, 
With here and there a blossom, none 
Did fruit unto perfection bring. 
The lilac, currant, and the rose 
Had disappeared, or if a few 
Still lingered, it w as only where 
Eank weeds or grass so thickly grew 
Around them, one must wonder how 
Their lives had been prolonged till now ; 
And house and grounds a common fate 
Had shared — and both alike were desolate ! 

It now were vain that house to seek ; 
And just as vain to seek the hill 
Where erst it stood, for here, alas ! 
Is nothing suffered to stand still, 
But change still follows change so fast 
The new comes ere the old is passed. 
And if that I, who have not stirred 
Abroad for years — ah, me ! how many ! — 
Of places to my heart endeared 
By memory, now can scarce find any — 
Or, if the place should be the same, 
Gone is the old familiar name,— 



180 INTRODUCTION. 

What -wonder if the thousands, who, 

Through crowded streets their ways pursue, 

Where once they were should daily pass, 

And never dream that either was 1 

Yet of that house have I to tell 

A tale, should make it be remembered well. 



SONG 



Though in golden sunlight laughs the bubbling fountain. 
That her shining tribute is sending to the main, 

Cold, as in the bosom of the snow-clad mountain, 
In her depths the pebble many a year hath lain. 

Even thus, while Nature is of pleasure breathing, 
And Life's bounding river rolls on in liquid gold, — 

Joy the eye is brightening, — smiles the lips are wreathing,— 
May the heart beneath them lie untouched and cold, 



THE CUP I HAVE BKIMMED. 



The cup I have brimmed I drink, lady, to thee. 
And were it as deep as the fathomless sea, 
And full as the ocean at springtide can be, 
To the bottom I'd drain it, dear lady, to thee. 

And drink to me, lady fair, drink thou to me. 
When, mute though thy lips, in thine eyes I shall see 
If love in thy heart lying hidden there be. 
For wine has no secrets, then drink, love, to me. 



LINES. 

PART OF A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS FOR THE " BOSTON PILOT." 



What veteran seaman, when the storm is loud, 
And envious clouds the face of Heaven enshroud, 
Would risk the fame of which he well may boast, 
And, pilotless, attempt an unknown coast ! 
Yet not alone when angry billows rise, 
And night and tempest join to veil the skies, 
And ocean rushes wildly o'er the strand, 
Would such a Pilot for his bark demand. 
For even when smiles the morn, and favouring gales 
Give to the home-bound joy and swell the sails, 
The treacherous bank, or sunken reef may bring 
The wreck of all to which we fondest cling — 
Home, hope and life — except some skilful hand 
Assume the helm, and guide her safe to land. 

And not alone the gallant bark that braves 
The tempest's wrath, and peril of the waves, 
A Pilot needs. The ship of state is wreck'd 
Too oft, when left to rashness or neglect} 



1S4 LINES. 

Behold the Freeman's boast, Old IaoNSiDES ! 

How bravely she the roughest storm outrides ! 

The breakers there, and now the quicksands here, 

She shuns, nor falters in her proud career ; 

But still, with sails full set, and flag unfurled, 

Moves on, the admiration of the world ! 

"Why is it she can thus securely sail, 

When round her foam the waves, and howls the gale ? 

Can hug the shore, yet run not on the land 1 

A faithful Pilot has her in command ! 

And Erin see ! With sails and rigging gone, 
Before the wind is scudding, aDd anon 
Lost in the cross seas that sweep o'er her deck, 
Or tossed upon the waves, almost a wreck, 
While angry scowls the face of Heaven deform. 
But that small craft has loeatlier^d many a storm. 
Then do not fear the floods shall her o'erwhelm 
In sight of port* — O'Connell's at the helm ! 

But, lo, the Bark of Peter ! Round her raves 
The fury of the tempest-; and the waves 
Of Errour's black, unfathomable sea, 
Before her prow uprear them threat'ningly. 
Yet, with the pennon of the Cross displayed, 
Onward her course — uninjured — undismayed — 

*The poet was no prophet here I 



LINES. 185 

Receiving ever on her ample deck 
The rescued souls from many a foundering wreck ; 
And they, who've "been the sport of every wind, 
Welcome with her, and peace and safety find. 
For Truth Unerring has by God been given, 
To be her Pilot to the Port of Heaven ! 



T LOVED THEE 



I loved thee ! and Low truly 

Is known to only One ! — 
For aye thy blessed presence 

Was to my world the sun ! 
And to this heart, whatever 

May seem to stir it, thou, 
Who didst its love first waken, 

Dost give the pulse even now. 

I loved thee ! and still love thee ; 

Though I shall meet no more 
The smile, on this -side Heaven, 

That made my bliss of yore ; 
For still the memory liveth 

Of thy unchanging truth, 
And keeps the flame still burning 

That warmed the breast of youth. 



SUKSUM COEDA. 



Poor, unhoping sons of toil, 
Tillers of a barren soil, 
That in tears do sow, again, 
Year by year, to reap in pain, 
Pinched by hunger and by cold, 
Till your hearts in youth are old ; 
Mourners, who have seen in dust 
Crumbled every hope and trust, 

SuRSUM CORDA ! 

Ye who have to earth been trod, 
And forgotten seem of God ; 
Nations, in whose life's warm tide 
Is the royal purple dyed ; 
Poland, that didst struggle on 
Manfully till name was gone ; 
Erin, that for years hast borne 
Chains and stripes and bitter scorn, 

SuRSUM CoRDA ! 



188 SURSUM CORDA. 

God will yet reward your toil, 
Patient tillers of the soil ; 
Ye who hunger He will feed ; 
Heal the wounds that inly bleed ; 
Strike from lordly brows the crown, 
And the tyrant's throne cast down : . 
Then, ye trampled nations ! then 
Shall ye rise and stand like men. 

SURSUM CORDA ! 



THE SOLDIER OF MARY, 



Beauty is a flower that all who look upon must ad- 
mire ; but the loveliest of flowers soon ceases to delight 
us, if it hath nothing hut its gay colours to recommend it. 
The flower is of little value without its perfume, and the 
charm of beauty is goodness. Many might be called more 
beautiful than the Princess Marguerite, yet she was emi- 
nently fair; but in no one, in the wide domain of her 
cousin, the puissant king of France, was so much beauty 
united to such exalted goodness. 

The high rank of Marguerite commanded the outward 
homage of all who approached her ; her beauty the admi- 
ration of all who beheld her ; her goodness the love of all 
who knew her. From the prince to the peasant, all loved 
the gentle Marguerite ; — all but the young Count Hilaire ; 
— and he adored her. 

The Count Hilaire, just returned from foreign travel, 
was the admiration of the court of the gallant Francois. 



190 THE SOLDIER OF MARY. 

The elegance of his person ; the grace of his manner ; his 
skill as a musician ; the tenderness of his verses ; and his * 
gallantry in the tournament, was each the theme of com- 
mendation ; and the fairest, and the proudest, and the no- 
blest dames of his native land vied with one another in 
their endeavours to attract the notice of the noble youth ;— 
all but the Princess Marguerite. She made no effort to 
win his regard ; but she often remembered him in her 
prayers. 

At a banquet, in honour of one who had reaped by his 
sword a plenteous harvest of renown, Count Hilaire was 
seated opposite the Princess, who was listening with 
marked attention to the distinguished guest, on whom she 
now and then bestowed a smile of courtesy ; but which 
the enamoured youth construed into smiles of affection. 
His heart swelled with envy ; and, as he retired for the 
night, he said to himself, 

" I too will be a soldier." 

He threw himself on his couch ; but notwithstanding 
the perturbation of his mind, did not forget, ere he dispos- 
ed himself to sleep, to address his customary prayer to 
our Blessed Lady — a prayer which had been taught him 
in his infancy by his excellent and pious mother. 

He slept ; and the world of dreams was unfolded to his 
view. He beheld an extended plain covered with castles 



TH3 SOLDIER OS 1 MARY. 191 

and hovels, cities and hamlets, and crowded with human 
beings of every degree. By his side were two youths, 
who, from their resemblance, might be brothers. One, 
bedight in all the trappings of war, was mounted on a richly 
caparisoned steed, that, pawed the ground with impatience 
for the onset ; and the other, clad in the coarse garb of a 
monk, stood in a musing attitude, leaning on his staff. 
The Soldier bounded forward ; but the departure of the 
Man of Peace was so quietly made that liilaire marked it 
not. 

The career of the soldier now drew the eyes of every 
one upon him. He soon gathered around him a band of 
daring men, to whom his will was law. The number of 
his followers increased with his power to reward them ; 
and in a little time he was at the head of a powerful army. 
His advance was hailed with shouts and gratulations, and 
the most beautiful damsels scattered flowers before him. 
But curses followed where he went, and his path to glory 
was tracked with blood. 

The soldier pressed on. His name became great among 
the nations ; and the place where his ashes at last Were 
laid was marked by a tower of enduring marble that 
thrust its proud head up into the very clouds. 

" I too will be a soldier," said Hilaire in his heart. 



192 THE SOLDIER OF MART. 

Hilaire had quite forgotten the other youth, until his 
eyes -wandered over the desolation that remained as a 
memorial of the soldier's progress. Then he descried a 
toilsome and patient being, going from ruin to ruin, and 
sufferer to sufferer ; building'up what had been cast down ; 
healing the wounded, and speaking comfort to the sorrow- 
ful ; blessing, and receiving blessings in return ; when he 
thought of him a moment with pity, and then let him pass 
from his memory, 

" Look beyond," said some one in a voice of melody. 
And turning, he saw standing by his side a being of celes- 
tial loveliness. The outline of the figure was hidden by a 
robe of glistening white, that fell in graceful folds from 
shoulders to the feet. But the face was like the face of 
Marguerite, and on the fair calm brow was placed a crown 
of heavenly radiance, 

Hilaire followed the direction of the outstretched hand ; 
and beyond the place where once stood the monument of 
the soldier, but which time had crumbled into dust, saw 
revealed the eternal destiny of him who had, while on 
earth, been worshipped as a god. But that destiny must 
not be told. Let it suffice, that the youth turned from it 
with loathing and with horror. 

" Look again," said the voice, " and then choose." 
He looked. And lo ! amid multitudes of glorious be- 



THE SOLDIER OF MARY. 193 

ings, whose faces were radiant with joy, and whose voices 
were continually raised in songs of thanksgiving and praise, 
he beheld the lowly and despised Man of Peace. The 
vision passed ; and Hilaire awoke . 

His choice was made. 

At an early hour in the morning, Hilaire repaired to the 
nearest church to offer up his thanks for the lesson that 
Heaven had bestowed upon him in his sleep ; and the first 
thing he beheld on entering was, over an altar dedicated to 
the Blessed Virgin, a picture of the celestial being who had 
visited him in his dream ; and from that hour he took 
upon himself the title of "The Soldier of Mary." 

It was soon noised abroad, that the young and gallant 
Count Hilaire had withdrawn from the gayeties of the 
court, and the favour of his sovereign, to shut himself up 
in the gloom of the cloister ; and many a lovely dame, 
whose heart had been stung by his neglect of her charms, 
uttered bitter words in contempt of his folly. But the 
high-minded and generous Marguerite uttered prayers of 
thankfulness in secret for the wisdom of his choice, and 
very soon followed his example. 

But the Soldier of Mary was not permitted long to re- 
main in his beloved retirement. A new world beyond the 
waste of waters had been chosen for the field of his enter- 
prise. With a small company of devoted servants of the 
9 



194 THE SOLDIER OF MART. 

Cross, he left the sunny land of his nativity, to brave the 
perils of the deep, and the rigours of a northern clime, that 
he might plant the standard of salvation amid the ruins of 
barbarism and idolatry. 

They had scarce lost sight of land when a terrible storm 
arose ; and the waves, rising in their fury, threatened im- 
mediate destruction to their frail bark, which was tossed 
about like a feather by the breath of autumn ; for the 
Prince of the Powers of Air, who had long reigned des- 
potically over the mighty regions of the west, was in dread 
of the conquests to be achieved by the servants of the 
Lord of Life, and had taken this means to destroy them. 
But the Soldier of Mary called aloud upon the name of 
his Mistress ; and immediately the darkness dispersed ; 
the winds were hushed, and the troubled waters of the 
ocean became instantly calm. 

But a greater peril awaited him on the land than on the 
seas. 

A savage chieftain, to whom he went to speak words of 
mercy and of joy, took and bound him prisoner, and con- 
demned him to a sudden and terrible death. But this was 
not the peril ; for death is what the soldier must be always 
ready to meet. His peril was in the rescue from destruc- 
tion. 



THE SOLDIER OF MART. 195 

The chieftain had an only child — a daughter — whose 
beauty was extolled above that of all the women of her 
tribe. This child of the wilderness had looked upon the 
prisoner of her father with the eyes of affection ; and when 
the fire was to be lighted that was to consume his body, 
threw herself at the feet of the chief, and sued for his life. 
Her prayer was granted ; the thongs that had bound the 
prisoner were cut, and he was once more free. 

And now began his trial. 

In requital for the service she had rendered him, the 
maiden, untrammelled by the customs of a more elevated 
state of society, demanded his love. But love he had not 
to give. The treasure which he had once been willing to 
cast at the feet of the noble Marguerite, had long since 
been laid upon the altar of religion — never to be with- 
drawn, but at the price of his eternal welfare. 

And now it was that the assistance of his gracious Mis- 
tress became truly efficacious. He was on the point of 
yielding to the untutored eloquence of the impassioned 
girl, and the weakness of his own nature, when he sent up 
to her a despairing cry for aid ; and in a moment the firm- 
ness of the soldier returned. In the conquest of himself, 
he had overcome his worst enemy ; and he was not long 
in convincing the ingenuous savage, that the heart has 
something more worthy of its love than an earthly object. 



196 THE SOLDIER OF MAKY. 

Thenceforth the course of the Soldier of Mary was on- 
ward ; adding every day new subjects to the kingdom of 
the Lord of Life, until no trace was left in the bowed and 
feeble old man, of the gay and gallant Count Hilaire. And 
now he prepared him for his speedy departure from the 
land of exile. For this purpose he every day retired to a 
secret place in the forest, where he spent many hours ab- 
sorbed in prayer. 

One day he retired at the usual hour ; but he came not 
back when he was expected. His companions awaited his 
return with much impatience, until the shades of evening 
had darkened the tops of the neighbouring mountains. 
Then impatience became alarm. But, though they sought 
diligently, and called upon his name throughout the night, 
the ruddy morning found him still absent. At length his 
retreat was discovered. Cassock and breviary, crucifix 
and rosary, were there ; but the Soldier of Mary was 
never more seen on earth. 



THE GUAEDIAN ANGEL. 



It is not alone, when night has drawn her dusky folds 
around us, and the hand of gentle sleep is laid upon our 
eyelids, that glimpses of a brighter and a better world are 
revealed unto us ; but often, even in our waking hours, 
when we have shut from our minds the sordid cares of 
earth, and purified our hearts from all unholy desires, are 
we visited by gleams of a splendour that far outshines the 
sun, and behold the beautiful and the blessed, whom God 
has commissioned to conduct his children to their everlast- 
ing home. These may be dreams ; but they are at least 
the foreshadowings of a blissful reality. 

I was lying one evening, not many moons agone, on a 

grassy hillock, over which the hand of spring had scattered 

innumerable flowers, lulled by the songs of a choir of 

" winged worshippers," that made vocal the darkening 

grove on my right, and looking up to the blue expanse 
9* 



198 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

above me, which had not yet lost the rich glow borrowed 
from the departing sun, whose last rays still brightened 
the tops of the dark pines that were swayed to and fro 
by the breath of the " sweet south." Suddenly the 
heavens opened ; and an angel, clad in robes of dazzling 
white, descended to the earth ; and, following him in his 
course, I saw him enter an humble cottage, and take his 
stand by the cradle of a sleeping babe, whose cherub brow 
had just been marked with the sign of man's salvation. 
The child of heaven bent with a radiant smile over his 
brother of the earth; and as that smile was reflected in 
the face of the sleeper, the young mother knelt and kissed 
her infant, and, in the joy of her fond heart, blessed it. 

Days, weeks, and months now seemed to roll by, and 
the young child was attacked by a slow and wasting dis- 
ease, that threatened to deprive the mother of her treasure; 
yet still the angel hovered around the couch of his little 
charge ; and when, overcome with watching, the eyes of 
the mother were closed in slumber and forgetfulness, he 
knew no weariness, and under the shadow of his protect- 
ing wings, the babe slept on securely. 

Now there stretched before me a beautiful meadow, 
clothed in the richest verdure, and adorned with golden 
flowers; aud thither, led by the angel, came the little 
child to play ; when, pleased with one flower more beau- 
tiful than the rest, he hastened to crop it; and. because 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 19S 

his companion would have restrained him, tore himself 
from his grasp. Then I beheld, for the first time, a shade 
pass over the bright face of the angel; but this was quick- 
ly dispelled. A bee, that was industriously gathering 
honey from the flower, which the child would have plucked, 
the next moment to throw away, had become angry with 
and stung him ; and he now came weeping to his friend. 
But I knew, when I saw the brightness return to the face 
of the angel, that he did not rejoice in the pain inflicted by 
the bee, but for the salutary lesson it was designed to 
teach — that the wayward are only to be reclaimed by suf- 
fering. 

Years passed ; and the helpless child had become a gay 
and fearless boy, seeking amusement in every thing that 
attracted his eye, or could engage his fancy. Now freight- 
ing his tiny bark, and launching it on the bosom of the 
ever-hurrying tide ; now pursuing with eagerness the down 
which the wind had stolen from the thistle, or the glitter" 
ing butterfly that wantoned in the sun ; now ascending a 
tree, to peep at the small blue and white eggs, which the 
bird had left unguarded in her nest, or scaling the almost 
inaccessible cliff, to pluck the honeysuckle that hung from 
its brow ; and though from all enterprises of hazard the 
voice of the angel strove to dissuade him, yet, when his 
warning was unheeded, instead of abandoning his charge 
to the consequences of his folly, he remained patiently 
with him, and aided him in retrieving many a false step. 



200 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

The boy was now a youth, full of bright thoughts, and 
hopes of high achievement ; and the neigh of the war-steed, 
the shrill blast of the clarion, and the shout of the onset, 
filled his ear with music, and made his heart bound with 
rapture ; and he panted for the moment when he might 
doff the garb of peace, and win, by the prowess of his 
arm, the laurel wreath that Glory held forth for the brow 
of the victor. But the angel led him to the scene of con- 
flict when the battle was fought ; and when he beheld the 
destruction of the husbandman's hope ; the smoking ruins 
of the peasant's cot, and the carnage that strewed the fa- 
tal field, he felt that the true glory of man was to save 
and not to destroy. 

The change from youth to manhood was very rapid ; 
and I saw that the brow of the angel besame more grave 
as his charge drew nearer to that important period ; for he 
could not but mark with what an eager gaze he turned, 
from the dry and dusty road he was urged to pursue, to 
the flowery, though devious, paths that led through a smi. 
ling valley, that stretched afar to the left, where birds were 
gayly singing in the boughs that were waving to and fro 
in the gentle breeze. Yet for awhile he plodded on, un- 
til he was met by one in-glistening robes, and flowing tress- 
es wreathed with flowers, whose beauty was dazzling to 
behold. With a smile that gave new lustre to the day, 
she approached with a step of grace, and in a voice that 
thrilled with joy the heart of the listener, invited him to 



THE GUARBIAN ANGEL. 20 1 

accompany her to the bower she had prepared for him in 
the pleasant valley. He readily complied • although the 
voice of the angel was raised to stay him ; and when the 
friend, who had been sent to conduct him home, saw the 
object of his great solicitude turn away to follow the beau- 
tiful enchantress, he bowed his head in sorrow, and cover- 
ed his bright face with his wings. 

With a buoyant step, the young man followed his con- 
ductress, whose name was Pleasure, to a bower which 
seemed to him the very temple of Happiness. Here a 
banquet was spread that would have tempted an eremite ; 
and a couch was prepared that would have pleased a 
sybarite. But short was his enjoyment. The wine that 
sparkled in the crystal goblets, though delightful to the 
taste, left upon the tongue a bitterness that could not be 
removed ; the luscious fruits, like those of the Dead Sea, 
were nothing but ashes within ; among the flowers that 
formed his couch were hidden numerous thorns that 
pierced him to the very heart ; and, instead of the smiling 
face that had won his admiration, the hideous features of 
a gorgon now met his gaze. He started up, and would 
have fled ; but his feet became entangled in the briars that 
filled his path, and he fell prone upon the earth. 

With bitter tears he now bewailed his folly ; and, with 
many promises of wariness for the future, called upon his 
friend to aid him ; and, though he came not himself, the 



202 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

kind angel sent to his assistance an aged pilgrim, named 
Repentance, who, though of a most ungracious counte- 
nance, that at first inspired the beholder with dread, went 
zealously to work, and in a very little while effected his 
deliverance. 

The road to which he now returned, seemed to him far 
more difficult than before. But whenever he complained 
of its roughness, the angel cheered him with the assurance 
that it would soon be at an end ; and then he would arrive 
at a country of vast extent, and of surpassing loveliness, 
where toil and suffering were utterly unknown. Once, 
however, he was tempted to leave it for a broader and 
more beaten path, that led up to a magnificent temple, to 
which crowds of every nation and tongue were hastening, 
to offer up their vows to the idol that had his shrine there- 
in, and who was, in their belief, the dispenser of every 
earthly blessing. But the pleadings of his good angel 
prevailed, and he restrained his feet from following that 
eager crowd. And well, indeed, it was that so he did ; 
for in a little while the pillars of the temple gave way, and 
the multitude of worshippers there assembled were crushed 
amid its ruins. Thenceforth he journeyed on, without 
turning either to the right or to the left, until his steps 
became feeble and unequal, and the dark locks of early 
manhood had become as white as wool. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 203 

After much toil, with the aid of a staff, made like unto 
a cross, which had been placed in his hand by the angel, 
whose face was now radiant with joy, the old man reached 
an eminence that overlooked a black and turbid stream, 
upon which the blessed light of the sun had never fallen. 
Here he was met by a dark and shadowy being, whose 
face was hidden in the folds of his robe, but whom the an- 
gel welcomed by the name of " Brother," and relinquished 
to his care the mortal heir of immortality whom he had so 
carefully guarded. The shadow stretched forth his hand, 
and grasped that of the old man, and the iciness of his 
touch congealed the blood in his veins, and turned his 
heart to stone. For a moment a cloud rested upon them, 
and all three were hidden from my sight. The next, a 
gleam of the indescribable was vouchsafed me ; and songs 
of rapturous joy, from the tongues of angels and of just 
men made perfect, upon the addition of one more to their 
blessed company, thrilled to my inmost soul ! 



NOTES, 



mzzio.^-page 1. 

This was intended to be the first of three tragedies, or rather the 
first part of a trilogy, that should not only embody the principal events 
in the fife of the unfortunate Mary Stuart, but contain a vindication of 
her, from the charges to which she has been so unjustly subjected, for 
almost three hundred years. But, after considerable time spent in col- 
lecting the authorities necessary for my purpose, circumstances com- 
pelled me to relinquish my design, at least for the present, and to con" 
tent myself with what I had already done, to clear the memory of the 
poor queen of one of the foul calumnies that had been cast upon it, by 
those who endeavoured to justify their own baseness towards her, by 
blackening the character of one who, to the majority of her enemies, 
stood in the double relation of sovereign and of benefactress. In 
making Rizzio old, and not well-favoured, I have simply followed 
Buchanan, who certainly would have made him young and hand- 
some, if he could, to render more plausible the monstrous story put in 
circulation by him, and his brothers in iniquity, of the improper inti- 
macy maintained by the queen with this man, during the first months 
of her marriage with Darnley, the husband of her choice, and one of 
the handsomest men of the time. The George Douglas of the play 
is not, as some, who have derived their knowledge of Scottish history 
*rom the Waverly novels, may suppose, the George Douglas who af- 
terwards assisted Mary to escape from Loch Leven Castle, but the il- 
legitimate son of the Earl of Angus, and, consequently, a descendant 
of that Angus who, for his feat at the Bridge of Lauder, acquired the 
10 



2(K> NOTES. 

name of " Bell the Cat." The leading incidents of the drama, as well 
as the characters, with one or two trifling exceptions, are historically 
true. 

hak-teeet. — page 93. 

This is little more than the versification of a story I met with in 
Nelson's "Burgoyne's Campaigns," a work that, maugre some defects of 
style, deserves to he better known than it is. 

THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC. — page 139. 

The bell of the steamboat Atlantic, which was wrecked on her pas- 
sage from Norwich to New- York, in November, 1846, was heard to 
toll, it is said, for several days after that melancholy event. 

THE CROSS AND BEADS. page 146. 

Colonel G. T. M. Davis, who distinguished himself in the late war 
with Mexico, in writing from Camp Patterson, near Matamoras, said, 
" In posting sentinels the first night after our arrival, we unintention- 
ally enclosed within the lines, the hut of one of the tenants of Travano, 
located immediately on the bank of the Rio Grande. In the morning 
it became visible, as well as its inmate. He was the oldest man I hare ev- 
er seen, being upwards of a hundred years old. Yet his step was firm 
and elastic, his health good, and his daily occupation a tiller of the soil. 
His humble habitation was a small straw hut, about six feet wide and 
eight feet long. Its furniture was a pallet in one end, made of an ox- 
hide ; a couple of spears ; a knife ; a few shoemaker's tools, and a gun. 
His larder consisted of a sack partly, filled with dry corn and a few 
squashes ; and his wardrobe, of a large brimmed hat, a coarse cotton 
shirt, pantaloons of the same material, and a pair of coarsely made 
shoes. Around his neck was a string of beads ; and at the entrance of 
his hut, upon an upright post, was placed a rudely made cross of about 
ten inches in length. This cross, and the beads that decorated his time- 
wrinkled neck, were the emblems of his religion. In answer to ques- 
tions put to him at my request by an interpreter, lie stated they were 
his only companions ; that for eighty years he had been a commini- 
cant in the Catholic Church ; and that his religion was to him his great- 



NOTES. 207 

est, his chief source of consolation and enjoyment. I instructed the 
interpreter to ask him if he would let me have the cross. Never shall 
I forget the expression that darkened his countenance. His reply -was : 
" No, siguor, no signor. The Captain can take every thing else I have 
got on earth, if he will spare me that cross and my beads. If he 
takes them, I hope he will take my life with them r ! " 

A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE. page 148. 

These verses were suggested by the melancholy story of a poor 
Irish girl, who having sent the earnings of many months to the relief 
of her suffering family at home, was so overcome, by hearing that the 
intended aid had been too late to save them from starvation, as entire- 
ly to lose her reason. 

THE EMPEROR AND THE NUN. page 159. 

Lady Dufferin, in her beautiful poem, " The ' Gates of Rome, the 
Gates of Heaven," having overlooked the part taken by the late Holy 
Father, Gregory XVI., in the diffuculty between the Emperor Nicholas 
and the Polish nun, Makrina, abbess of Minsk, these verses were writ- 
ten to supply the deficiency. The " Scourge of God" was the name 
given to Attila, and the tyrant of Russia has fully established his 
claim to the same title. 

george davis. — page 171. 
I take a melancholy pleasure in publishing these lines, little 
as their merit certainly is, for the opportunity it affords me of bear- 
ing testimony to the worth of one who, whatever might have been his 
faults, was incapable of an act of injustice to the meanest of his 
fellowmen, and who at all times treated with manly scorn, everything 
that had even the semblance of meanness or duplicity. 

THE SOLDIER OF MARY. page 189. 

Something like the closing incident in this prose poem, is related by 
Bancroft in his History of America. 



208 



The following lines, taken in part from a very early publication) 
are transferred to these pages, for the purpose of correcting a mistake 
into which some of my friends have fallen respecting my birthplace. 

Think not, because another name 

So often in my song is heard, 
That I my Native Land disclaim ; — 

The land to all preferred. 

no. But she is glorious ! — free ! — 
Renowned among the Powers of earth ; 

While sunk in wretchedness is she 
Who gave my father birth. 

The one, a mother wise and good, 

And honoured, I in reverence hold ; 
The other pity, as I would 

A grandam poor and old. 

And do not, though poor Erin's name 

So often in my song is heard, 
Mine own America disclaim — 

To all the world preferred ! 



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